Malum
by AeonBlue
Summary: Part 2 to Analeptic. Meg is on the run from an entirely new disaster, but is it all in her mind? Randy tries to hold her, and himself, together while sorting it - and his past - out. Joe, meanwhile, finds out if he really burnt his bridges with Meg. (M fo
1. Fortitudo in Dolore

The a/c in the car hummed continuously, a pleasantly neutral drone that kept Meg asleep and Randy anchored to reality. "Holy shit," he whispered, "You're really _here."_ He felt frozen, afraid that any movement would cause her to disappear, prove she was an illusion and he really had lost his mind from lack of sleep and an overload of guilt. Slowly, he reached for his phone, unlocked it, took a single picture of her as he drove toward her rental car, and sighed. "I have no idea what to do now," he whispered, "But I'm glad you waited."

* * *

><p>Randy could barely believe Meg <em>had<em> stayed in the clubhouse after he left. His car was parked in Joe's driveway, and not only did he refuse to let her walk that far, he saw no reason to make her face the same misery twice. He left his cell number at the clubhouse desk with instructions to call if she so much as stood up, but she made no moves to leave. _'Just trust me,' _Randy thought, as he jogged to his car, '_No promises, because I know I fuck up. Just trust me enough to stay put, and I'll take care of the rest.' _By the time he returned, he was coated in sweat from the humid Tampa air, and Meg wrinkled her nose at the sight of him.

"You look like you got your car, went to a match, and _then_ came to pick me up."

"Would you be offended if I said you probably needed a shower, too?"

"Touche, Mr. Orton. You win this round. Just remember, I smell better when it's all said and done. And while you're at it, hand me your phone? I need to ditch my rental if we're going to be taking yours."

Mentally, Randy fist-bumped himself. _'She said she would ditch her rental! And take yours! Once we get Dave, maybe he'll have a better idea.' _Meg made a quick call, and then lobbed the phone back to Randy – her toss wobbled badly off-center, and he had to lean to grab the phone.

"Sorry. My aim sucks. Anyway...we have to get going. I don't have long before someone comes to get the car, and my suitcase...and stuff...is in there."

"You can arrange rental pick-up service from three states away?"

"You can do lots of illegally-arranged things if you have enough questionably-attained cash."

Shaking his head, Randy stood to guide her out the door, but Meg snatched her arm away from him. "I've got it. Go ahead." She waited until he was well out the door ahead of her before following, leaving Randy to puzzle over what he had done wrong. Meg didn't say anything, just walked to the door of his car and leveraged her body against its frame while trying to pry the handle open. Randy knew better than to try to help; he just got into the driver's seat and waited the few minutes it took her to get the door open on her own.

_'I'll wait til you tell me, Meg. Just...don't bail on me.'_

She dozed off almost immediately once she got in, greedy for sleep as though she hadn't had any for months. Randy was glad to give her silence and security. Interestingly, or oddly, she didn't flinch as he began to drive – a statement of trust he didn't know how to appraise, but was grateful to mentally file away.

* * *

><p>Meg woke briefly when they picked up her suitcase and box, and then again once they reached the airport after sunset. It was a struggle to talk Randy out of actually <em>entering<em> the airport, but he eventually acquiesced. Meg reasoned that sitting in the car would be private and quiet, the parking garage was darkening, and they'd be able to pick up Dave and leave much sooner if they were able to direct him out than if they had to send a series of 'Where are you? Are you here?' text messages, on top of dealing with people who might recognize Randy. _'Plus, I can sleep in here. You're here. It's quiet.'_ After a few minutes of watching Meg settle in the passenger seat, her breathing even and slow, face relaxed, Randy was glad he hadn't continued the argument.

Dave messaged continuously, each text more exuberant than the last. Randy sighed, aggravated that his phone kept lighting up, and while trying to put it down instead managed to drop it in the center console much louder than he meant to. The thump woke Meg, who jumped slightly, then began a series of small, slow stretches with her eyes half-closed.

"Shit! Sorry, Meg. I didn't mean to -"

"It's okay. Really. I should probably get out and -"

Randy, panicking, grabbed her arm. "Meg, no! No. If you get out, you're going to leave." He watched her eyes go wide, then blank, and let go of her arm as fast as he had grabbed on to it.

"Randy," Meg whispered, "I wasn't -"

"No! No. I fucked up, I shouldn't just grab you like that."

Meg never took her eyes off his hands. She edged away from him in her seat, feeling blindly behind her for the handle to the door. By the time she got the door open, disentangled herself from the seat belt, and managed to orient her feet to the ground, her teeth were chattering. "I just...I wasn't..." Meg kept staring at him, backing away slowly, not bothering to close the door. A nearby car door slammed, and Meg launched herself back into the SUV, clipping her foot on the running board as she went. Randy quickly went from trying not to touch her at all to awkwardly trying to catch her before she fell face-first into the center console.

"Meg! Meg. Calm down. It's okay. It was just another car. We're in a parking garage. I've got you." Randy pushed her back into the passenger seat by her shoulders, leaning over to get the door closed behind her, mentally going over how things fell apart, not knowing if touching her now would make things worse or better. _'Five minutes ago, she was sleeping and calm. Then I had to fuck up and grab her. Yeah, that was probably when things fell apart.'_

"Meg? Talk to me." Watching her refocus on him was a bit like watching a radio tune from static to stations. "Hey? Welcome back?" He carefully slid his hands down her arms, then away from her, and held them up in a gesture of surrender. "I swear to God, Meg, I didn't mean to-"

Dave chose that moment to materialize and knock on Meg's window; she shot a good foot out of her seat and nearly screamed. Randy had to start all over with trying to touch-but-not-touch her to calm her down. Dropping an elbow onto the button for the passenger window while still trying to hold Meg relatively still, he lowered it a good six inches before waving a middle finger at Dave, raising the window again, and unlocking the doors. Meg jolted at the noise.

"No, it's okay. It's Dave. Just Dave." Randy reached around her for her seat belt, clipping it across her waist. "Look, uh, I skipped the sandwich part of the deal, so I still owe you dinner." Meg wasn't listening; her eyes were darting around the SUV as though she was bracing for an attack. "Hey, Meg? Tune in for a second. It's easier when you pay attention." He leaned in entirely too close, but it forced her to back herself into the seat and look at him. "There you go. Slow down. I don't know what we're supposed to do with Dave. Or why his dumbass self hasn't put his luggage in yet. But, dinner. I owe you dinner. Can we go take care of that?"

Meg eyed him cautiously, her breathing too fast and too shallow, then nodded slowly. "O-okay. But...can we not go out?"

"Uh...sure?" _'Tread lightly, Orton.' _"Can I be really dumb and ask why?"

Meg blushed. "You said I needed a shower."

Randy chuckled. "I think we both do." His phone took that opportunity to buzz from the center console. Without looking, he reached to pick it up – the message was from Dave, saying he was sorry and asking if he could open the door yet. Looking over the top of Meg's head, Randy could see him standing several parking spaces away, the expression on his face one of horrified regret.


	2. Tip Your Waitress

With much coaxing, Randy talked Meg into taking the back seat, in part so he and Dave could talk without bothering her, and in part so she could stretch out comfortably and sleep while they drove. They hadn't decided where to go, which made Meg uncomfortable. What won her over was the promise that she could nix any place they stopped at, no questions asked. With that settled, Randy slid over to the passenger seat and Dave, after adjusting the driver's seat to accommodate his much shorter stature, prepared to drive.

Before Dave even put the key in the ignition, Randy had turned around, balled up his hoodie, and given it to Meg. "Pillow? Shitty substitute, but...better than nothing." Her smile was small but grateful as she accepted, smoothing out the cottony fabric before cuddling her face into it and breathing deeply. Randy winced; he _knew _he needed a shower, but Meg didn't seem to mind. The smile didn't leave her face, in any event.

Dave turned the engine over, and Randy watched Meg in the rearview mirror. Her body tensed, and she pressed herself back into the seat, digging her fingers into the fabric of the hoodie. Before Dave could even put the SUV into reverse, Randy had his hand on the gear shifter.

"You know...I can drive."

"Not a chance. I slept on the plane; you look like you haven't slept in days."

"Dave, really. I'm okay to drive." He shot a pointed, backward glance at Meg. Dave followed Randy's eyes, then raised his eyebrows, mouthing out _'What's wrong?'_ in response. Randy shrugged, but started to unbuckle his seatbelt in order to switch over.

"Guys. It's fine. Dave can drive." Meg's voice was small, but the decision was final. "Really." She swallowed down the quaver in her voice. "Let's just go." She bunched Randy's hoodie further in front of her face, praying they'd hear sincerity and not nervousness.

Dave and Randy shot each other concerned looks, but said nothing. Dave started the SUV, slid it into reverse, and ever-so-gently, backed out of the parking spot. Meg buried her face in Randy's hoodie so she didn't see the lights pass overhead, and tried to breathe deeply, to force her body to slow down somehow. _'He's right, he kinda does need a shower. But...it's not so bad. He's been worse.'_

* * *

><p><em>- "Jesus Christ, Randy, this is awful even for you. Have you let housekeeping in here since you checked in?"<em>

_He looked up at her from the floor, silent._

_The room was pungent. The first thing Meg did was throw open the balcony doors for some air, snow be damned. She peeled the sheets and pillowcases off the bed; they smelled like sweat, sex, spilled beer, and a thousand other products of whatever else Randy had been up to in the week he'd been holed up in the room. The towels and washcloths came up next; every single one she touched rousted a cloud of mildew along with it. Cups, beer bottles, liquor bottles, plates, napkins, whatever leftover takeout was, well, left over – all went into the sole trash bag she could find._

"_You're lucky I care about you as much as I do. This is going to involve one hell of a lie. At least you didn't break anything this time. Or have I just not found it yet?"_

_Meg lifted the receiver on the phone – sticky, of course – and dialed housekeeping. She asked for sheets, towels, toiletries, pillowcases, trash bags, extra washcloths, anything she could think of – and then said her friend had taken ill and hadn't realized the 'Do Not Disturb' tag had been on his door. Declining the offer for help cleaning the room, Meg explained she would take care of it herself, she was a nurse, there was no medical emergency, she simply wanted to change the sheets and save the staff the difficulty. Tip to be provided, of course._

"_My wallet is by the TV. I think."_

"_No, it's not. You need to get up off the floor."_

"_So I can do what? You said my wallet's gone. I can't get dressed, I don't have clean clothes. I don't have clean sheets. I don't even have soap. Everything's fucked, Meg. Everything."_

_Housekeeping knocked at the door much faster than Meg expected, so she bit her tongue, pulled out her own wallet, and pressed two twenties into the maid's hands, accepting several stacks of linens and other items from her, blocking the door with her foot to prevent the woman from coming in. The maid shook her head as she left._

"_Here's a start. You gonna get up and help me, or not?"_

_Randy slid himself up the wall with his legs, but his arms didn't want to cooperate with the rest of him, so Meg waved him off. "You fucked up your shoulders again, didn't you?"_

_He didn't say anything, just stood there, looking at her blankly._

"_So you stayed in here for a week, letting it get worse?" Her tone was significantly more annoyed now than it was with the previous questions. "And now I get to clean up after your ring rat orgypalooza?"_

"_That was low."_

_Meg snapped the fitted sheet in place, grabbed Randy around the waist, kept him at arm's length – which did nothing to prevent his odor from wafting in her general direction, but at least mitigated some of it – and forcibly sat him down on the edge of the bed, putting her hands gently on top of his shoulders. "And now I just wrecked the sheets, because I know those are absolutely not clean boxers." She sighed. "Look. You can't keep doing this to yourself. I have no idea what it feels like to go through what you're going through, but nothing you're doing right now is making it better. Know how I know?" He looked up at her, silent, but not angry. "You keep doing it. If it actually solved your problem, you wouldn't need to keep going. You'd just be done."_

_Randy's eyes were empty. Sam wasn't there to fill them anymore, and nothing he tried to put in her place helped. Meg smiled gently and rubbed a hand around the back of his neck. "C'mon. They brought soap. Go get in the shower. You'll feel better. I'll finish your bed and you can sit around in a towel while I run stuff through hotel laundry. Then I can check your shoulders." She chuckled. "I might even be nice and shut the balcony." - _

* * *

><p>Once Meg finally stopped fighting it and let herself sleep, Randy stopped staring at her backwards in the mirror. <em>'Thank God, I was gonna throw up if I had to keep looking in reverse.'<em> He took a few deep breaths to steady his stomach, and then turned to Dave, not daring anything more than a whisper. "Any ideas? She needs to eat, minimum."

"And we all need sleep."

"Okay, so, a hotel with room service and multiple beds."

"Yeah, and that's going to be so easy to do in a tourist city, in the evening, headed away from the airport, with three people, no reservations, and her having issues with _everything_. It's all going to remind her of Joe."

At the mention of his name, Randy involuntarily clenched his hands, a motion not lost on Dave.

"See? This is why I'm behind the wheel. You'd turn around right now and drive this through his living room."

"No. I'd drive it over him. Big difference."

Dave snorted. "Do something useful with your phone. Punch up a travel website and see what's available. Corporate was kind enough to throw me a black card and _you_ a vacation-extension, on my way out the door. They were _very_ serious about avoiding a scene with you, Joe, and Meg. I don't want to run up a huge tab, but if there's nothing else, there's nothing else. Don't go nuts, though."

Randy managed, after a lengthy search, to find a four-star with features they'd use and appreciate for a few days – private balconies, an in-suite kitchenette, locking separate rooms, 24-7 security and dining, and on-site laundry. And, shockingly, a decent rate, with the only catch being that there were no three-bed suites available. "Then...wake her up and ask her. We're right on top of this place; it wastes time to turn around if we pass it."

"Ran? Just book it." Meg murmured from the backseat. "Two beds still means I can sleep on a sofa."

He sighed, but pressed "Book Now" and punched in the numbers from the card. _'We'll see who sleeps on what, Meg. It won't be you, but we can talk about that later.' _"You always did chime in at the worst times, Meg."

"Watch it, or I'll use my veto power. Now shut up and let me get back to sleep." She pressed herself back into his hoodie, but not before catching his eye in the mirror and smiling at him.

Randy smiled back, shaking his head. _'Whatever I did earlier...at least I didn't fuck up too bad. This is going to take practice.'_


	3. A Florid Psychosis

Welcome back, everyone who stuck around from Analeptic! For everyone who's here and new, feel free to jump back and take a peek - it'll make Malum that much more enjoyable.

Giant shoutouts to nattiebroskette (Go read her stuff! Seriously! Go now!), shieldgirl, psion53, warblerwings, mom2, everyone I'm sure I'm missing, and everyone I'm hopeful has stuck around. Here we go...consider this one setting a stage...

* * *

><p>Dave had them both wait in the SUV until he returned with room keys. He didn't want anyone to approach Randy and by proxy, scare Meg. Once everyone had a key in hand, both men turned to look at Meg, who looked back at them, perplexed.<p>

"What?"

Dave started, gently. "Well...hon...how do you want to do this? Elevator, stairs, on your own? We don't know what works. Or doesn't work."

Randy could see the storm cross Meg's face, and he was having none of it. He was too tired, too hungry, and too concerned with getting her to the room, making sure she was safe – whatever safe meant – and debating the best way to do it was not on his list of things to do. "Meg, stop. We're all tired, just tell us what you want. Tell us if you don't know what you want. It's fine either way. At the end we all just need to be in the room."

Meg looked down at her hands and sat, thinking, for several seconds. When she spoke, her voice was thin and quiet. "I don't know what I want. I'm sorry."

Randy shrugged and reached inside the SUV, slid her along the seat, helped her down from the edge, and shut the door behind her, making sure her feet were firmly on the pavement. He kept his arm around her waist as they walked in the hotel and took an elevator to their floor. Inside the boxcar, he made sure to stand away from her, thinking of Jackson and the bruises on her back from the elevator railing. He watched her walk out past him, and waited until she was several steps ahead before following her to their room. Once she was in front of their door, he stayed to the side, remembering how she reacted at the doors of the clubhouse.

Shakily, and with a sidelong glance at Randy, Meg managed the key in the slot and pulled the handle down. The door was heavy, and she knew her leg was going to bark from the effort, but she forced herself to get it open on her own. _'Meg...don't be dumb. It's Randy, not...Fuck, Meg, get a grip.' _She shook her head and started across the room, looking around as she went. The room was beautiful, and Meg trailed her fingers across the surfaces and edges of various tables and chairs as she moved, sinking into the thick carpet.

"Is it okay, Meg? You like it?" Randy sounded hopeful.

Meg settled into a couch near the window, looking out into the night sky. "It's...too much. It's perfect. Throw me a blanket. I'll shower once you and Dave are done."

"You're not staying on the couch, Meg."

"Didn't say I was. But the view from here...look." She pointed outside, waving Randy over to her side. He had to admit, the scenery was spectacular. Crouched next to her, he couldn't believe the number of stars visible against the clear sky on the outskirts of Tampa. Birds cut across the face of the moon, and the trellises framing their balcony were covered in hibiscus and honeysuckle. The bay, distant but still an omnipresent part of the city, carried sailboats in clusters of jeweled lights. Dave banged through the door, and again Meg jumped, bumping Randy and clutching at her collarbone. "Jesus, Dave. Like a bomb in a bull in a china shop. Sorry about that, Randy." She touched his arm, a vague look of concern crossing her face.

"It's fine, Meg. Not like you're going to knock me over."

Out of sheer stubbornness, Meg pushed at him harder. Playfully, Randy gave an exaggerated topple backwards, landing with an an audible grunt. He yanked a pillow off the couch to throw at Dave, hitting him squarely in the face.

"The fuck was that for?"

"Because you made her knock me over."

"You two are such children. I'm taking a shower. One of you figure out room service." Dave tugged his suitcase into the cavernous main bathroom, locking the door heavily behind him. Meg shrugged and looked at Randy.

"You handle it. I'm not hungry."

"Meg, you need to eat. Even if it's something small."

She sighed and rolled her eyes. "Okay. You order what you want, and I'll pick off of it. Really. I haven't had much in...well...really, since I was checked into the hospital. Before it, I guess, too."

Randy perused the menu. "What about...soup?" He immediately regretted the words. _'Dumbfuck. What did she have with Joe, the night Jackson threw her into that mirror? Good choice, you goddamned idiot."_

Meg was nonplussed. "That...actually sounds good. Pick something out for me?" With that, she stepped gingerly from the couch to the bed, opening the box Joe left for her. "Wow. Asshole couldn't even fold things. I'm going to throw most of this away." Meg lifted out a few badly-wrinkled tank tops, some pajama bottoms, pawed through some loose items at the bottom of the box, and then sighed heavily, her hands sinking into the contents. "It's not even _in _here, that fuck. Of all the things to keep, why..." Meg's voice caught on the end of her question, and heard her fingernails scrape against the cardboard inside the box.

"What's not?"

Meg's face was blank, but her fingernails kept grinding, her eyes looking at a memory not in the room.

"Meg? Hey...Meg? What's not in the box?" Randy sat down on the corner of the bed, careful not to crowd her.

Meg snapped back to reality, her mind struggling to come up with a response. "Oh...uh...my iPod. It's pretty sad that everything I own is shuffled between this and a suitcase. I don't even know where to start."

"Nah, Meg. You're just one of us. Everything you own in a couple boxes, and you better hope the airline doesn't lose your luggage, or you're fucked." Randy wasn't sold on her answer, but he didn't press.

Meg laughed, and again it sounded like it had to come from a distant place before it emanated from her. "Oh my God. Remember that time that half the women on the roster had their luggage shipped to San Angeles instead of Los Angeles? I felt so bad for them! It's not like you can share some of that stuff..."

"That's why it pays to drive. And," he added, leaning over to lift her hands from the box, "You don't have to do all of this tonight. It'll be here in the morning." He moved closer to her on the bed, holding her hands, the space between them comfortably quiet. _'Tell me you understand I'm going to be here for you, like you were for me.' _Meg's small smile was all the reassurance he needed. From his angle, he could see her bright green iPod in the tangle of debris in the box, and wondered what, exactly, she was looking for.

* * *

><p>Dave's shower finished, Randy's begun, and room service delivered, Meg struggled through a bowl of minestrone from her position on the sofa. <em>'He remembered – I only like it if it's got the little noodle thingies in it.'<em> Not wanting to be ungrateful, Meg pushed herself to keep working through the bowl, knowing full well Dave was watching her and Randy would have expectations about her meal once he got out of the shower.

"Two down, one to go." Randy stepped out in a cloud of steam and something that reminded Meg of his cologne. "When you're done with your soup, that is. I did say I'd buy you dinner."

"Yeah. I'll shower later." _'Please don't push the issue. Please. I know I need to, I eventually will. Just stop.'_

Randy gave her a dour look, but left the topic alone, instead laying out on the bed. Dave looked from Meg back to Randy, picked up his book, and announced he was going to the other bedroom. Meg started to stand up, but Dave was gone before she could mount any sort of real protest, vertical or otherwise. Randy and Meg looked at each other from across the room. "Meg... Randy began, trailing his fingers across the quilt, "I don't know where to start. But...can you please not sleep on the sofa? I want to know for at least one night, you're comfortable, safe and in a bed. Everything tomorrow is up for negotiation, but tonight...I'll take the couch, okay?"

"No. You're going to fuck up your shoulders if you do that."

"Oh my God, Meg, please. Not tonight. Any other night but _not_ tonight." Randy buried his face in his hands. When he looked up again, it was in time to see the bathroom door close behind her. He heard the water turn on in the shower, and was thankful she listened to him for at least that much. "Meg...what the fuck am I going to do with you?" Sliding off the bed, he wandered to the back of the suite and knocked on Dave's door.

"S'open, Randy."

He let himself in, leaning heavily on the door frame. "She's showering, but I want a game plan before tomorrow. She's going to be an argument every step of the way, and I'm not just...turning her loose. She has nowhere to go."

"Oh, she does." Dave turned another page of his book, only half-invested in his conversation with Randy.

"Uh, and that is?"

"She's going to stay at my apartment. I'm traveling with you idiots and the company all the time; someone has to keep an eye on my place. Meg can do that for me. I can justify giving her enough money for food and utilities in exchange for her keeping things clean and organized. She'll balk, but I'm not giving her an option. Her LPN lapsed; Oechsner made that much _perfectly_ clear to me. Until she can get a job, she can't afford anything else."

"And when were you going to let me in on this little plan? You know she's going to flip."

"You were going to find out at the same time I was. Which, apparently, is now." Meg had appeared behind Randy like a ghost, silent and ominous, and oddly for the heat, buried in a heavy bathrobe she had pulled from the hotel's closet. Her expression, rather than angry, was simply hurt. "You really think I can't take care of myself. I can live through Jackson, I can live through all that bullshit with the car – and that should have killed me, Dave – but I can't find a fucking apartment? Thank you. Thank you so very much." She turned as quickly as her aching, reconstructed bones would allow her, and limped off to the main bed.

"Pretty sure we fucked that up, Dave."

"Nah. She's hurt, but she knows I'm right. There are some things she can't do right now; this is one of them."

"So let me guess. It's 'Go figure it out' time for me, right?"

"Nope. Just go to bed. And don't sleep on that fucking sofa; I'm not putting your shoulders back in joint when you get up. She can sleep where she wants." He tossed his book to the side of the bed, and waved Randy out of the door. "See you in the morning."

Randy, flummoxed, simply backed out of the doorway and went back to the main room of the suite, where he found Meg standing as though she were lost, out in the middle of the floor.

"Please, tell me you didn't plan that with him." Her voice was wild with hurt, and she didn't bother to face him before speaking.

"Meg, how could I know? He was on a plane all day. Have I ever lied to you?"

"Randy," Meg said, flatly, "Do you know how many people have said they've _never _lied to me?"

_'Great fucking job, Orton. Wonderful. Anything else you want to say or do to bring up Joe?'_

"I'm sorry. Look...when you did this shit for me, you were just..._better _at it than I am. I'm gonna fuck up, Meg. But I'm trying, okay? I'm _trying_."

"Go to bed, Randy."

He threw his hands in the air, stomped to the bed, and threw himself on it. Meg moved to the sofa, laid down with her back to him, wrapped herself in a blanket, and prayed sleep would come easily.

Which, of course, it didn't. Meg changed tactics and began pretending to page through a magazine. Randy had been unable to keep himself awake, and as soon as Meg was positive he had drifted off, she moved to the door and checked to be sure it was locked, then slid the eyebolt over as well. _'Meg, he's dead. Nobody's coming. The police told you he was dead. You were in the same car he was in. Stop it.' _Backing away from the door, she moved to the bathroom, where she had every intention of leaving the door open behind her, but somehow closed it, pushed the privacy-lock on the doorknob, then turned the deadbolt as well.

Meg untied the knot in the sash on the bathrobe, and let the front fall open. All she could find to sleep in was a wrinkled, lacy tank top from the box Joe had smashed together, and a smallish pair of cotton shorts she salvaged from the room above the bar. For the sticky Florida weather, the attire was comfortable, and for the company she was in, perfectly appropriate. The bathrobe was pure overkill, but she was miserable in her skin and wanted it covered. Meg was normally pale as sin, but she was now even more wan from her time in the hospital. Normally one to make jokes about being near-transparent, she was in no mood to crack wise. She had long – and in some places, wide – mauve scars across her sickly-white body.

Stripping the tank top off, standing in front of the mirror in a worn, cottony bra, she traced her fingers up her left side, along each dot left from the screws and wiring that anchored her ribs, and the scar from the incision right alongside it. Under her collarbone on the left was a similar line; more screws, more wires. _'I remember seeing that sticking out,' _Meg thought, trailing her fingers along the scar. Her leg was the worst of it; somehow it had slipped out from under her and been crushed by the dashboard against the edge of her seat while the car rolled. Thus, the side of her lower right leg had been opened rather haphazardly in the ER in order to try to save what could be saved. _'I should be thankful. I'm angry that it's ugly, that I don't look the way I'm supposed to. No. I look the way I'm supposed to. I did an ugly thing. I was supposed to die, too.' _She had other breaks, fractures, and things that were problematic, but they were things that could be set, splinted, and cast, or things that could be fixed via the incision near her ribs. Meg hated hospitals; the scars Oechsner left on her – and in her – hadn't done anything to improve her opinion.

Randy managed to sleep, but the room became unbearably warm after only a few hours. _'Dammit, I forgot to set the air conditioner. Oh well. I can check on Meg.' _Rolling from the bed, he stripped off his shirt and turned to face the sofa, which was empty. Randy spun, wildly, looking around the room for her but seeing nothing until it registered that light was coming from under the bathroom door. _'This is more and more like that night with Jackson. Except tonight, if I have to take that fucking door off the hinges, I will.'_

Approaching the door, Randy called out to Meg, trying to get her attention before he knocked. _'Please, please just open the door.'_

"Randy...give me one minute. Just one. I'm fine."

"What are you doing, Meg?"

"I don't know."

Randy rattled the doorknob; her answer terrified him. _'Whatever was listening to me earlier, please be listening to me now and let her be okay.'_ "Meg, girly, open the door. I swear, I'm not going to touch you, I'm not going to lecture you, I just want to see that you're okay. I'll go right back to bed."

Tank top again in place, robe wrapped tightly around her, scars covered, Meg slowly reversed the locks and opened the door, trying to let her eyes adjust to the darkness of the main room. It was the medallion dangling around Randy's neck that caught her attention, and she put her hands on his chest as she leaned up to peer at it.

"_You _had it?"

"Please don't be mad; I still have the chain you had it on, I can put it back, it's just that it didn't fit right for me and I didn't want to break it if I-"

"No...Ran, that's really...just...you had it?"

"That's what you were looking for, wasn't it?"

Meg looked up at him, a sheepish half-smile on her face. "Yeah. How'd you know?"

"Your bright green iPod kinda sticks out. Even in a box full of stuff."

Her hands, frigid, hadn't left his chest; they framed the medallion and sent chills through him. She lifted the tiny emblem from his skin, peered closely at it, then pressed it back against him, frowning. "You should keep it."

"Meg, he's yours. Isn't that your guy? You said he's, what, patron saint of wanderers, the circus, murderers, entertainers...and besides, he was a gift from your professor. This is sentimental for you."

At his words, Meg's fingers flexed against him; Randy watched her entire countenance shift and lock down unpleasantly. He brought his hands up over hers, unbidden, and she shook him off. "No. No, no. It's yours. I don't want it." _'He knows. He knows what I did, he knows, that's why he doesn't want the stupid little necklace charm. You're dirty, Meg. You're fucked up ugly dirty.' _Meg watched his tattoos crawl toward her, his arms too close, the skulls looking, blinking, smiling at her, and pushed past him back to the sofa, pulling the blanket tightly around herself. She stared at the wall ahead of her, where she saw the same skulls, still moving, Jackson, still moving, the car, still moving, until she crushed her eyes shut, wrapped her arms around her knees, and forced her head down, not sure if she would scream or vomit if she kept watching.

Randy, frozen at the doorway to the bathroom, had no idea what he had done or said. Sighing, he reached into the bathroom to turn off the lights, then went back to the bed to lay down. _'You being you, Orton. Like always.'_


	4. What's in a Name?

An itty-bitty bridge chapter...

* * *

><p>When Dave came out of his room in the morning, he found Randy sitting on the sofa watching Meg, who was now bunched into a corner on the floor, head resting against the wall, staring blindly ahead at nothing. Nothing <em>they<em> saw, at least.

"Hey, Randy? C'mere for a sec."

"Dave...maybe not now."

"Randy, _right_ now. Now-now. _This_ now." Dave's tone left no room for discussion.

Randy cautiously stood from the sofa, not taking his eyes from Meg's catatonic frame until the last possible second. He met Dave in the second bedroom, irritated at being called away from his position in the main room. "What, Dave? I want to keep an eye on her. Something's wrong. This all started last night; she locked herself in the bathroom and when I got her to open the door she saw her medallion, but when I tried to give it back to her she flipped out and now she's...like that."

"Randy..."

"Dave, knock it off. You have that, 'I'm about to lecture you,' tone, and I'm not in the fucking mood." He stood to go, but Dave grabbed his arm, hard, and yanked backwards.

"No, _you _need to shelve the attitude and _listen,_ or you're not going to do her _any_ good. Do you understand she almost died? Then she was locked up and drugged up for almost a month? Then, the one thing that kept her going – Joe – erased her with zero warning. Physically, she's trashed. Mentally, she's dealing with what Joe did, the bullshit she _intentionally _put herself through, and whatever Jackson did to her while she was gone. All of a sudden we just _dropped _in on her, trying to fix everything, tell her it's all going to be okay – and to some degree, we _do _have to do that, and we _do_ have to make those decisions, because she can't right now, but she's not going to react _at all _normally to the things we do. Not like a regular person, not like normal Meg, just...not."

"So, what, she's permanently broken?"

"No, I'm saying she's going to be a long, long way from the person you remember – the person you said you-"

"Shut _up_, Dave." Randy's tone was low, almost growling. "She doesn't need to hear that."

"No, but she needs to not be confused by it, either. Meg – our Meg – is in there, but she's buried. There's a lot of bullshit to be cleared out before you – we – get to her, and you're going to see glimpses of her, but that doesn't mean she's all the way there. Don't push. Be ready for her to make no sense at all. And don't lay your shit on her, either. Whatever you feel, zip it."

"Dave...what? I don't get this. This is something specific, or this is what you think, or what is this?"

"This is depression. This is anxiety. This is physical pain that she isn't medicating, unless you've seen her taking pills." Randy shook his head. "Exactly. Remember your surgeries? Think about what she's feeling. She's sorting out Jackson. Sorting out Joe. This is, really, PTSD. You know how much Meg hates hospitals, hates losing control. She has no idea what was or wasn't done to her while she was in there, while she was drugged...whatever. She's got to process all that. It's not going to be pretty. She's going to push us away as hard as she can, whether it's on purpose or not. She's going to be intentionally and unintentionally self-destructive."

"So what do you want me to do?"

"I don't know. She's going to have to tell you. And she doesn't know how to tell you. But she hasn't come to me at all. She's talked to you, she lets you be physically close to her. That's telling you something. I'm putting her in my apartment because I can, and because I don't use it. I'm asking you to keep an eye on her."

"How the fuck am I supposed to do that from the road, Dave? Magic?"

"No. You have a few more days off. See if she warms up to you. Talk about things that are safe. Get her used to the idea of the apartment so she'll stay there. Later, you have a movie. That's twenty-some days where you're on break and at least in the area of my place if there's an emergency. Seattle isn't Vancouver, but it's a start. See where you are after that."

"Remy – the ambulance guy – he said there were police files, medical files, shit like that..."

"For you, maybe. Not for her. Not now."

"What about therapy?"

"Yeah, you could use some, why?"

Randy rolled his eyes and laughed. "Right. I know. And I won't bother asking Meg."


	5. Vicodin Snowflakes

Thank you to all my R&R'ers, welcome to all who are new, and no worries, I swear they will actually get back to wrestling. It'll happen. Honest.

Go read Analeptic, please, if this makes no sense. You might even like Analeptic. It's pretty okay, or so I've heard.

Much love to nattiebroskette (go read her stories, please, they are both sweet and...yummy), for being amazing. And she wins the cameo appearance, TBA!

MetalMayhem, you are still my test case for all things consistency in my stories - I knew you were out there!

SG - I'm glad the muse found you again - and JON BELONGS TO NO WOMAN! ;-)

Mom2 - I'm so glad you came back! And I promise, there is a "Roman is nice and gets the girl!" story in the works.

I hope I didn't miss anyone...warblerwings, I'm looking at you...

* * *

><p>Meg's leg had stiffened underneath her while they talked, to the point she knew she had to move, get up, the pain was unbearable. Randy crept around the corner, trying not to surprise her after talking to Dave, but started to walk to her side when he saw her struggling to leverage herself up the wall. Dave again grabbed his arm, stopping him mid-step. "No. Just let her alone. I know it looks bad, but you running to her every time isn't going to help."<p>

With great effort, Meg made it off the floor and limped forward a few steps, looking at Randy and Dave as though she had no idea where they came from. Thinking, Randy tried a neutral approach. "Hey, kiddo. Breakfast? Toast and a fruit plate?"

Meg slowly turned to look at him, her eyes taking what felt like years to find him, and her mind taking even longer to process what he said. "Hey. Yeah. Uh...yeah. That sounds...really good, actually. _Really_ good. Can we go sit outside for a while?"

Dave volunteered to wait for room service to arrive, and Randy opened the door to the balcony, being sure to cut Meg a wide berth and to leave the door open behind them. Surprisingly, Meg leaned over and closed it before they both sat down on the deep sectional that nearly consumed the small outdoor space. She picked at lint on the hems of the bathrobe before she turned to face Randy.

"Did we talk last night?"

It was Randy's turn to pause, confused, and stare at Meg blankly. "Meg...I'm not sure what...where are you going with this?" _'Jesus Christ, you're gonna jump over the balcony, aren't you?'_

"I feel like we did. I remember parts of talking to you, but it's like it's all out of order. Like I was scared of something, but it doesn't make sense. I've never been scared of you. If I did something to make you angry, I'm sorry. After that thing with the car, I'm just not...acting right. If I was an asshole, I didn't mean it, I swear."

"No, Meg, it wasn't like that. If I explain it...I don't even know if I _should_ explain it. You froze up so bad when we talked, and I don't want you to do that again. It scared me."

"Randy, I don't mean to...I'm doing all of this all wrong. I shouldn't ever have left. It fucked up everything."

"Meg...no. No, it didn't."

"No. I didn't have to-"

Randy leaned over, completely on impulse, and wrapped her in his arms, pulling her across the sectional until she slid down to the floor in front of him. Meg tensed, organizing herself to keep everything covered, then relaxed entirely into him while he leaned over her. "Meg, shut the fuck up. Please, just shut the fuck up. I missed you – and I'm not telling you to make you feel guilty. All the shit you did for me...every time you sobered me up, cleaned me up, got me through a screening – fuck, just got me through a day, Meg. I wouldn't have lived through that divorce if I didn't have you – please, Meg, just...stop. Just please stop hating yourself over it. You did what you felt like you had to do, just like I was doing, and now I'm here, and I'm gonna try to help. You did it for me, I'm gonna do it for you. I'm gonna fuck up a _lot_ more than you did, because it's me. But I'm gonna try."

"Randy...you don't know what I did." Her voice, already small, now muffled by his chest, was somewhere between hateful and mournful.

"Meg, all I know is, you're here now. And please, take this back. The whole reason I have it is because I didn't want Joe to have it.." He lifted his necklace up and over his head, and gently laid it around her neck, not missing the desperate grab she made for the neckline of the bathrobe, unsure if it was to block him or hold the top of the robe together.

"But...you're not listening...I -"

"Meg, stop. That night you called and I told you Joe fell...I lied. I didn't want you to worry. He was talking shit about you, and I went off on him. I punched him – well, I spit first, then I punched him – but I didn't want him to keep your necklace. I just...it didn't mean anything to him. Please...this is always what I think of when I think of you." _'Well...I think lots of things. This is one of them. Some I don't tell you, because I...don't know' _"That story about the nun who used to give you all kinds of shit about your name, and how you hated her at first, but eventually she was like a mom to you...that's my Meg. Please?" He still hadn't let go of her; he could swear he felt her cold skin through her bathrobe.

"Is this what we were talking about last night?"

"Yeah, and then you looked at me like you...like something was wrong. Like you were seeing something."

"Promise me when I do that, you'll tell me?"

"When you do what? Meg, I'm not gonna promise you shit. I fuck up. It's one of the few things I do well. If I see you do something that's weird, I'll tell you, but I'm not gonna make it a mission."

"Fair enough." She still hadn't moved from his arms. "And Randy? Thank you."

"Uh...for what?"

"For not letting him talk shit about me. I know what I did was stupid, but I didn't ever-"

"Nah, Meg, fuck him."

Meg snorted, but stayed where she was, quiet, snagging a cushion to sit on so she could stay tucked under his arms, waiting for Dave to bring breakfast out to the balcony. They watched hummingbirds, pointed at various buildings and boats, and talked about old matches. Gently, Randy rubbed his hands over her shoulders. From inside the room, Dave watched them, concerned. _'Randy didn't listen to a thing I said. It's too much, too close, too soon, and Meg is going to latch on to him because he's familiar. That is, until she explodes at him, which is going to destroy him. Because he loves her. This is going to be a giant nightmare.' _He gave Randy a pointed look when he delivered breakfast to them, but said nothing. Randy met his eyes, but only shrugged in response.

* * *

><p>After breakfast, Meg spent the rest of the morning sleeping, reading, and staring out into the city across the space of the balcony, while Dave made arrangements with his apartment complex and Randy went over chunks of the script the film company had forwarded via e-mail. Her afternoon was spent inside, watching a warm rain slide down the windows and sorting out the rest of the things Joe left her, and while she was right – she did leave much of it in the box to be thrown away – the majority of the clothing was salvageable and just in need of washing. Dave sent all of their laundry down with a maid to be laundered while Meg napped again in the early evening; Randy took the opportunity to move the box to the hallway, pausing before he left the room, tempted to dig through the letters and other detritus inside.<p>

"You know that's a bad idea." Dave, always the voice of reason, grumbled across the room in Randy's general direction, but made no move to get up and stop him.

"How do you even know what I'm thinking? Besides, you want me to be supportive and shit. Don't I have to know what's broken before I can fix things?"

"You're not _fixing_ anything, and you can't think of it like that. You also can't be pulling the whole 'lover's embrace' bullshit you were doing earlier, either, Cupid. It's going to confuse her."

"The fuck, Dave?"

"Out on the balcony. One, it's her and balconies and you know how that ends. Two, she's confused. You pay attention to her – any kind of attention like that – and you're not establishing boundaries. She's going to think you're here to be in love with her, not to help her. And it's _helping_, Randy, not _fixing_. Do you think she _fixed_ you? Or do you think she was there for you in the right ways, no pressure, and let you figure it out on your own? Did she come on to you? Because I don't think she came on to you. She _respected_ you. And three, digging through her things isn't respecting her. It's stalker-levels of intrusive. It's what Jackson would do, honestly."

Randy fixed a dark look on Dave and walked the box out to the hallway, seating himself against the wall and opening some of the letters. _'Fuck you, Dave. I think she knew what she was doing, or this all would have been tied up in a trash bag, not out in the open.' _Each one sweetly sentimental, Meg wrote pages to Joe, missing him, loving him, asking him to be careful, wishing he didn't have to go out so often but saying she understood, telling him she felt so lucky – and on the back of each one, a short few lines from Joe about how yeah, sure, he felt the same way, he wanted the same things, it all was so great, he was so happy. _'I know guys suck at this shit, but Jesus, dude, put some fucking effort in. This is what she did even when you were right there with her on the road. Unless you were burying her in flowers and jewelry – and Meg hates that shit anyway, she can't wear rings under latex gloves – then what was your point, Joe? You just kinda wanted to love her? You wanted to want to want to love her, maybe?' _He felt a headache building at the base of his skull, and knew Dave was right. _'I should have just left it alone. I really am going to kick Joe in the balls.' _Throwing all of the letters back into the box, he stood up and went back into the room, rubbing his eyes.

"You let _go_ of me _now,_ or I swear to God..." Meg's voice was hysterical, and she was wrenching back and forth in Dave's grasp.

"Meg, it's Dave. Stop. You were about to fall off the bed. Sit up and I'll let go."

Meg was struggling against Dave and watching the walls spin, crawling with skulls and pens, having just woken up from yet another dream about crashing the car, watching Jackson's arms flail uselessly around its interior in a shower of glass. She could feel her bones breaking over and over, feel the burn from the IV lines and the chemicals, watched the room rolling around her the way the car did, but those fucking skulls and pens – mocking, laughing – continued to circle around her.

Feeling locked in a strange, uncomfortable deja vu, Randy tilted his head at the scene in front of him and walked casually to the bed. He tossed Dave away from Meg as though he was a small child, which allowed Meg to land flatly on the floor at his feet. She yelled when she hit the carpet, landing on her bad leg and banging her shoulder against the frame of the bed, but it was the jolt she needed to come out of whatever netherworld she was in. She looked up at Randy, then over to Dave, who was also on the ground, though several feet away from her. Meg's breathing was ragged and refused to slow; Randy shrugged and went to make sure Dave was alright.

"The next time you want to practice a hip toss, give me some warning. I'm old." Dave was rubbing his ass and it was all Randy could do not to chuckle at his irritation.

"I'm doing what you _told _me to do. You said I can't go running in to save her every time she loses her shit. That means _you_ can't go running in, either. Was she having a nightmare?" He refused to give Dave the satisfaction of having an overreaction. _'I wanted to run over, but I didn't. I'm getting better at this. Kinda.'_

"Yeah, but she was getting loud. I didn't want her to start screaming and have security come in here like we're trying to kill her."

"And if they do, then we deal with it. If she falls off the bed, then we deal with it. You said she's got shit to work through, so...are we letting her work through it, or not? You don't get to have a different set of rules."

From behind him, Meg whispered. "Was I...was I doing it again, Randy?"

Randy turned to face her, then crouched down on the floor. "Yeah, Meg, it looked like you were. What were you dreaming about?"

_'Stabbing Jackson in the leg and then intentionally wrecking his car to try to kill him. Oh, and then hallucinating afterward, because your tattoos talk to me.'_ "I...don't remember. I guess. It was just...I don't know."

"Right. But we'll talk about it later. Is your leg okay?" _'Meg, you have to really, actually, really talk to me.'_

Meg tried stretching it out in front of her; her knee moved easily, but when she tried to roll her ankle and stretch her calf, she immediately recoiled and yanked her leg back toward her body. The pain in her bones was agonizing, and the muscles of her calf burned. "No. I fell on it?"

"Yep. How about your arm or your shoulder or whatever is wrong up there?"

Meg slowly rotated her shoulder, waiting to see if her collarbone caught, snagged – which it did – and she flinched. "No. So I fell on that, too?"

"Bumped it, mostly. Meg, didn't the hospital give you anything when you left? Pain medication? I got pills by the bucket when I had my shoulders done; you went through way more than that."

"Yeah. I don't take it."

Randy threw his head back, rolled his eyes, bit his tongue – anything to keep his mouth shut and not scream at Meg for putting herself through hell for no reason. Once he felt he could be reasonably calm in speaking to her, he shifted to a seated position and sighed heavily. "Okay. So you at least had the script filled. Do you have them anymore, or did you throw them out?"

"I have them."

Even Dave snorted loudly at that, then hefted himself from the floor and began digging through Meg's suitcase until he came up with a small orange bottle. He tossed it to Randy, then returned with a glass of water. "Work a miracle, Randy. The bottle's even got refills on it, imagine that. I'm going to go pick up our laundry."

Meg watched him leave, waiting until the door latched shut before she turned to look at Randy, who slid closer to her across the floor. "I'm not taking that."

"Yes, you are. I'm not asking, Meg. You need it." _'Dave said we need to make some decisions for her.'_

"Randy, I'm not arguing with you about it. I haven't taken that shit yet, I'm not taking it now. All they did at the hospital was dope me. I don't _want _it, I don't _need_ it, it's not going to happen."

"Meg, you're hurting. You took this before. It helps. It didn't kill you-"

Reflexively, and all in the fraction of a second, Meg punched him, and solidly at that. She caught him at the corner of his mouth, and her knuckles burned. Somehow, the dead weight of her leg no longer a factor in her movement simply because she refused to let it be, she had thrown herself toward the door and would have had it open if not for Randy's preternatural speed. He crashed into the door around her, slamming it shut and trapping her between him and the thick wood. _'Meg, I'm not letting you run. Hell of a swing, but I'm keeping you here.' _Meg spun to face him in the small gap he left between his chest and the door, trying to push him away, but the effort made her body scream to stop from the pain it caused her.

"Meg, stop." Randy pulled her hands into his chest, using the contact she initiated to lead her away from the door. "Stop. You asked me to tell you when you weren't acting like yourself." He continued to pull her to the bed, her legs giving out as he lowered her backwards. "Here. I don't know what I said, but I'm sorry. Please, take the pills? Just one? You're hurting." He tapped a single tablet out of the bottle and into his palm, cautiously offering it to her, leaving the bottle in his other hand, praying she would accept a second pill..

She slapped the bottle of pills out of his hand; its contents exploded across the carpet. "I said no."

Randy looked at the pills, scattered like snowflakes across the room, and then back at Meg. The faintest taste of blood was in his mouth from where his lip had scraped against his teeth when she punched him. _'And knowing Dave, he's going to take the fucking stairs, get a coffee, do a crossword, solve world hunger, and then come back with our laundry because he thinks I can talk Meg into anything.'_ He sat heavily on the floor in front of her. "You win, Meg. No pills. What else can I do that will help you?"

The question hung in the air; the sound of the rain filled the room and Randy was grateful for anything that padded the space of their silence. Wordlessly, Meg stood from the bed and stumbled to the kitchenette, where she took ice from the freezer and dampened a terrycloth towel. Once her small ice pack was assembled, she stumbled back to Randy and literally fell to the floor next to him. "You can put that on your face, and not hate me," Meg whispered, leaning into his side, "Because I can't explain it." _'You can explain it, Meg. You're a fucking liar. You're a dirty, whoring, fucking liar. Tell him you killed Jackson. Do it. Go on, do it. Tell him the crash was supposed to kill you, too, and you hit him because he realized you're a failure. You can't even get dying right because look at you – you're still here, fucking up his life, too.'_

* * *

><p>When Dave returned – exactly as Randy predicted, almost two needless hours later, laundry in tow – he found Randy sitting on the floor, running his fingers through Meg's hair, talking softly to her, and her asleep with her head in his lap. <em>'Again, an incredibly bad idea, but at least she's not laying on her bad shoulder.'<em> He quietly placed the laundry bags by the closet, and inched toward Randy until his feet began to crunch on the pills that littered the floor.

"Do I want to know what happened?"

"She's got a wicked right cross. I let her win this round." A shadowy bruise was forming at the corner of Randy's mouth, and Dave shook his head.

"She actually _hit_ you?"

"And tried to bolt out the door. And knocked her pills out of my hand. And apologized for it. And now we're here, so honestly? I don't give a rat's ass what she did. She's here and she's okay. It's okay." He looked down at Meg, shifted slightly, and brushed his fingers through her hair again. "Just...whatever, Dave. If you want to make me her long-distance babysitter for a month, then you've got to trust me. Otherwise, you do it."

Dave sighed and rubbed his temples. "Randy...you're...you just don't _listen_." He looked down at Meg, her tiny frame still perpendicular to Randy's. "Have you talked to her about the apartment? And the movie? Does she understand she's going to be on her own for a while?"

Randy smiled broadly, still stroking her hair. "Doing that right now."

"Through what, ESP? She's asleep."

"I know. But I kinda feel like she's listening, too."


	6. Spasm

Welcome, MissMoxley, SweetHigh, and alibob687 :-) Glad to have you aboard; hopefully you enjoyed Analeptic and are finding Malum equally tolerable. Feel free to drop me a line; I luuurve hearing from my readers.

And, MetalMayhem, Mom2AllisonandJames, nattiebroskette, psion53, shieldbabe, and warblerwings...all the cookies in the world! I'm keeping this going for you :-)

For you lurkers out there...please, feel free to review – or if that's kinda icky, message me! I am pleasantly chatty, just ask poor Nat. I talk her ears (keys?) off on a daily basis. Shieldbabe, too. And Ms. Warbler. See? I never shut up. Friendly! Friendly author, right here!

Away we go!

* * *

><p>They packed the next morning, nobody feeling particularly enthused about driving to Kansas City. With no ID, Meg had no way to get a plane ticket, and nobody wanted to press the issue of returning to her state of residence. Louisiana was the one thing neither Dave nor Randy dared bring up directly. Randy groused about getting back to work; his real problem was with leaving the fragile bubble of safety he felt he had built for Meg. <em>'She can barely function in a hotel here; what the fuck is she going to do out there?'<em>

Tampa to Kansas City was a relatively straight shot via highways, and they'd left a day early to give themselves extra time to eat, nap, stretch, and account for Randy's inability to drive anything anywhere without getting lost. Meg, not one to miss an opportunity, started to tease him about it before the suitcases were even zipped. _'I'm pretty sure he could get lost trying to park a grocery cart in a corral. Poor guy.'_ Randy and Dave traded turns behind the wheel once they started off, and Meg spent her time in the SUV trying to get some of her credit cards re-issued and considering whether or not either man would let her drive if she asked. _'It's not like I didn't drive to Florida on my own...and I don't need a set of chauffeurs.' _Randy chose that moment to look up at her from behind the wheel, using the rearview mirror, and wink. _'Then again, this isn't so bad.'_

* * *

><p>Dave decided to stop at the staff hotel before going to the Sprint Center, in part so Meg could acclimate to the smaller, noisier, shabbier room she would be sharing with him, and in part to get there before anyone else from the company showed up. Randy made leery slits of his eyes; he didn't approve of the neighborhood or the accommodations. <em>'It's not the bed-sharing, it's the plywood door, the stale cigarette smell, the windows that don't open, it's just...awful. Why can't corporate just put us all in one place?'<em>

Meg didn't flinch; compared to the room she had above the bar, this place was palatial. _'It's just fine; granted, it's not like the suites Joe...would...get...Meg, leave it alone.' _Sighing heavily and looking at Randy, she sat on the foot of the bed. It sank dangerously low, giving Randy yet another thing to add to his mental list of complaints about the room. The look of concern on Randy's face wasn't lost on Meg.

"I bet I know what you're thinking, Ran."

"Oh? What's that?"

"That I'm going to either get kidnapped by a marauding band of hotel robbers, or I'm going to try to run."

Randy shuffled his feet, annoyed that Meg had caught him so easily. "Meg...please don't tell me I'm not allowed to worry about you."

"I didn't say you couldn't worry. But I'm telling you that you don't have to. I'll stay put. If I didn't, who else would do tequila shots with you after the show?" She smiled and stretched her good leg out, nudging him with the toe of her shoe.

Randy reached in to ruffle her hair, but Meg swatted his hand away playfully. He shrugged, reached in with his other hand, and continued leaning over her with his back and forth attempts at mussing her hair until she was nearly flat back on the bed, wild with giggles. Randy finally got one hand on top of her head and swiped down, brushing a huge swath of her hair down over her eyes. Meg's poorly-considered response was to grab his unoccupied hand with both of hers and yank down as hard as she could. She hadn't considered how off-balance he was, or how far forward he had leaned, and he crashed forward on top of her. Randy managed to catch most of his weight on his arms, but he still landed largely on her chest, causing him to panic.

"Fuck, Meg, are you okay? Did I hurt you?" He tried to push himself back to vertical, off of her, but Meg refused to let go of him.

"Play fair. You don't have hair I can mess up." She tried to blow some of her snarled hair out of her face, but failed, still giggling. Her ribs stung; he really hadn't landed gently. _'But...please don't get up.'_ She blew more hair out of her face, still refusing to let go. He managed to shift his weight off to Meg's side but stayed close, seeing something cross her face that kept him near. "I'm being honest, Randy. I'm going to stay here. It's not the company hotel, but I don't want to see anyone, anyway. Other than you, that is. So, I'm going to stay. Sometimes, I really am capable of just...listening." She reached over to his cheek, patting it. "Besides, just in case Dave gets busy, you're gonna need someone to put you back together." He smiled, enjoying the coolness of her hand.

* * *

><p>Around 7 PM, grateful to have the distraction from the loneliness of the room, Meg turned on the TV and surfed channels til she found what she was looking for. Plot lines on RAW were headed toward 'repeat' even before she left, but in her absence had become almost intolerably circular. The Authority versus anyone Not-The-Authority, the Wyatts relegated to mid-card hell, and unbearably short Divas matches that stereotyped their characters. Meg had to grit her teeth to get through parts of the show, and rolled with laughter at the sudden onslaught of fur-suited or otherwise ridiculously costumed wrestlers. "Since when did we need a leprechaun, a mini-bull, and a guy in a bunny suit? This is...<em>all<em> the things." Throwing a bag of popcorn into the frightfully small microwave near the TV, she prayed a circuit wouldn't blow while it cooked. It finished just in time for her to settle back on the bed and watch Randy's handicap match, in which he, as a member of The Authority, was scripted to have the upper-hand against a group of non-Authority wrestlers with whom he was engaged in a longstanding feud. '_How decidedly original, Corporate,' _Meg mused, as she flicked a kernel of popcorn at the TV, pinging it off the screen.

Her level of interest in the match went from, 'All of my guys can do this in their sleep,' to, 'All of my guys are far too large to be doing this top-rope shit,' in a heartbeat. Several of the Authority members ended up in a pile on the announcers' table, Randy included, and a camera panned over to Jon's character, Dean, preparing to hurtle himself off of the ropes and on to the table, likely with the intent to cause its collapse. Meg winced; nothing good could come of this idea. Even a perfectly prepared stunt table, rigged to collapse correctly, still meant that exceptionally heavy people would be crashing into, and onto, each other.

Meg's eyes never left Randy. 'Dean' sent himself flying, landing heels-first on top of the pile of bodies on the table, and the whole mess collapsed, as was planned. The unplanned part of the segment included Randy's head snapping up and his face contorting into an ugly grimace while he clutched desperately at his lower back. A ringside medic – _'I remember his face, why can't I remember his name?' - _ran over, and Meg struggled to lip-read what he was saying, but could clearly tell from Randy's gestures that he was in pain. _'Something, something, fucking back...please tell me that disc didn't go out on him again. Please.' _

He forced himself through the match, but his moves were thick and slow. He had a hard time getting up on the apron, lifting the other wrestlers, even just walking looked like a stiff and cumbersome process. _'Dave picked up the vicodin I spilled. Maybe I can get Randy to take one when he gets here. If he decides he wants to come back. Maybe Dave can get him patched up at the arena. Yeah. Actually, yeah. He's not gonna come back here, Meg. God, why are you so fucking needy? Randy just got hurt, and you expect him to show up? What's wrong with you?'_ Shaking her head, she decided to take a shower and get ready for bed, not expecting to see Randy at all.

* * *

><p>Dave trudged down the hall of the hotel several hours later, Randy leaning heavily across his shoulders, both men awkwardly dragging their suitcases behind them.<p>

"You know why your back hurts? Because you need to go on a fucking diet." Dave was sweating profusely, trying to tow his luggage, triage bags, and Randy as he went down the hallway.

"You're gonna call _me_ heavy, Santa?" Randy poked the older man's ample stomach and rolled his eyes.

"I'm ancient, and I'm not supposed to go flying around a ring in my underwear. I can be fat. Plus, I'm not the one with the fucked-up spine. Tell me again why you didn't have that disc surgically repaired?"

"Because PT worked just fine. It'll work just fine again. I don't want to be out for months for recovery and then have years cut off my career."

"Guess what else cuts years off your career? _Paralysis_, Randy."

Meg tried to fight through the fog of near-sleep to get to the door, hearing Dave's voice just outside, coming up the hall. Her hair was damp from her shower, soft from the rose oil she had worked through it, and she had buried herself in one of Randy's hoodies. _'I hope he doesn't mind that I snagged it from his suitcase before we left Tampa. It's just that it's getting colder up here, and...Meg, why are you making excuses?' _She didn't expect to see Randy, still damp with sweat, leaning against the wall next to the door, one hand clutching at his lower back.

"Oh my God. You need to come in here, now. I saw what happened. It's that disc again, isn't it?" Meg was immediately awake and at his side, trying her best to take some of his weight onto her shoulders and gingerly lead him into the bedroom. She brushed past Dave as though he wasn't there.

"Meg, you're gonna fuck up your leg and your shoulder, I already jacked your ribs, just let Dave -"

"Shut up, Randy. You need help right now. Your back is fucked. I'll be fine." She urged him forward, both of them fighting each other; him to keep his weight off, her to take his weight on. "And it's not my shoulder, it's my collarbone. So really, it's fine."

"Well, hello, Meg. Thanks for helping with the luggage, my evening was wonderful, I'm glad you enjoyed yours, thanks for ordering dinner, anything good on the TV?" Dave raised an eyebrow at her, amused that her focus had honed so sharply onto Randy, even though he wasn't her responsibility at all. _'Legally, I shouldn't even let her touch him...but what can I do now? He had a fit when I told him no at the arena. She'd have more of a meltdown if I tried to stop her. They both would. And this is just how that shit with Joe started.'_ He watched as Meg eased Randy onto the bed and knelt in front of him as much as her legs would allow, talking to him about what had happened, what he felt when he landed, what he remembered during the bout. Dave could see their spat brewing; she wanted to help, he wanted her to rest and not worry. _'Oh well. Let them have it out.' _He announced he was going to take a shower and change, brought the triage phone with him into the bathroom, and left the two to their own devices.

* * *

><p>"Randy, seriously. Please? Let me take a look."<p>

"Meg, there's nothing to _look_ at. It's a disc. It's internal."

Meg rolled her eyes and huffed. "I _know_ that, dumbass, but if I palpate the area, I can get a better idea of what's going on and maybe what we can do to fix it."

"It's nothing. I just need more PT. They'll script me out; the movie is coming up anyway. It'll be okay."

"Randy, _please_." Meg's tone was hurt, and she rested her hands on his knees. "Or is it that you don't trust me?"

It was Randy's turn to look hurt; that wasn't what he meant when he told her it was nothing. _'No, I just...I know how bad it is, and I don't want you to worry about anything else. It's my turn to worry about you.' _"Meggie...no. That's not it."

"Then lay down. And by the way, _thank you_ for showering." She poked his leg, trying to tease him and lighten the mood somewhat. He knew full well he still smelled like sweat; his skin was sticky with body oil and whatever else he'd managed to get on himself in the ring. _'Probably spit; Glen flips his head around too much.'_

Slowly, Randy took his shirt off and stretched across the bed diagonally, trying to give Meg enough room to maneuver around him. Meg sat next to him on the mattress and gently poked and prodded around his spine, trying to feel for anything beyond his immediate injury. "Problem one," she murmured, "Is that you're guarding. I know everything in your lower back hurts, but you're tensing up around the problem. I need you to relax. It's just me; I'm not going to make it worse. I used to glue you back together all the time, remember? I've seen you way worse than this. Though, not gonna lie, this would be easier if you were on a table."

Randy smiled at the unbidden memories that flooded his mind while her icy hands began to work into his thick muscles. "I remember," he mumbled through a smile, wrapping his shirt around his arms and pulling the mess up under his head as a makeshift pillow, "You put up with way too much of my shit."

"What are friends for, Ran?"

"Yeah. Friends." His tone was suddenly harsh and dry.

"What just happened?"

"Nothing. Just figure out what's going on with my back."

Meg slapped the back of Randy's head, hard, before settling her hands dangerously low, atop his waistband. "You're being an asshole right now. I didn't do or say _anything_ to you. What gives?"

Randy swallowed hard. _''She's right. You're acting like Jackson. Like Joe. Why are you snapping on her when she doesn't even know that you...Randy, just shut up. You're not gonna tell her, so just shut the fuck up.'_

"Meggie, I'm sorry. It's just...my back hurts that bad. I'm pissed about how the match went, I'm pissed it's an old injury, and I'm.." He sighed, and pressed his face down into the bed, so his voice was muffled. "I'm gonna shut up and let you do your thing, Meg. I'm sorry."

Dave chose that moment to come out from the bathroom, already mid-sentence about having to go to the main hotel and address some issues with post-match bruising. Meg was sitting stock-still next to Randy's shirtless figure, looking for all the world like a puppy that had been kicked. Dave arched an eyebrow at the duo, waiting for some sort of explanation. Receiving none, he said he expected his to be a long night, and not to wait up for him. The click the door made as it latched sounded for all the world like a gunshot going off; both Meg and Randy jumped at the sound.

Cautiously, as thought Randy might change his mind about his apology and turn his vitriol on her again, Meg began to work her hands into his back, gently at first, and as he relaxed, with more and more pressure, thinking as she went. _'Top layers. Thoracolumbar fascia. You get tighter on the left than you do on the right, so I have to work longer on that side. I can remember that, but __I can't remember the name of the ringside medic. Middle layers. Erector spinae. You get mid-back spasms on the right if I don't work longitudinally, but I can't remember what we __talked about in the bathroom. I remember every trigger point on your trapezius; both sides. I have to be careful the farther up I go, or you start to tic, but I can't remember what happened to me in the hospital.' _Meg's hands ground to a halt on his back; her hands frozen in mid-stroke. Randy's breathing had become a series of quiet, satisfied moans; he looked like he was moments away from falling asleep. _'When did I know all that? When did all those little things about you...I didn't...even with...'_ She looked at her hands as though they didn't belong to her.

Realizing she had stopped her work, Randy began to slip back toward wakefulness. He turned over toward her as best he could, afraid he would undo the magic Meg had worked, and tentatively reached out toward her, his tattoos coming into full view as his arms slipped out from under his bunched-up shirt. "Thanks, Meg. For putting up with me. I should be the one taking care of you. And not saying stupid shit." The skulls on Randy's forearm, silent to this point, began to smirk at Meg, then outright laugh. _'You think he doesn't know? He pushed __you away because of what you are, whore. Dirty, lying, killing whore. But we know. We know what you are.'_ Meg shuddered hard and backed away. "No, I'm good. Really. I don't need anything. H-how's your back?"

He followed her gaze to his arm, and a thousand possibilities went through his mind – all related to _her_ mind. _'And you're gonna broach that one how, exactly?' _He pulled his arm back slowly. "Whatever you did, it's amazing. I know I'll find a way to screw it up between now and the next show, but...right now, everything's perfect." He reached for his shirt, trying to get it over his head without having to sit up, and was grateful for Meg's help in putting it on. Meg, equally grateful that his arms would be covered, was glad to help him adjust the fabric. Randy reached for her right hand, careful to leave her left side entirely alone, and pulled her toward him. "Stay with me and talk for a bit? I don't feel like going back to my hotel."

Meg's cold fingers wrapped tightly around Randy's hand as he pulled at her, and she adjusted her position on the bed. "Fair enough. I want to keep an eye on you, anyway. Dave's got some gel we can put on your back – Voltaren – it's not narcotic, it's like a goopy liquid NSAID. It'll help keep everything relaxed like it is now. It's not really for your spine, but -" Randy couldn't suppress a shiver, causing Meg to giggle. "Sometimes I forget I have such cold hands. I'll stop touching you."

"No, Meg," Randy breathed, "Don't."

* * *

><p>Dave had slipped Randy's room key into his pocket before he left, intent on spending the night in the comfort of the talent's hotel, rather than the budget accommodations provided to him and by proxy, Meg. He knew it was a bad idea not to go back, evict Randy, and talk to Meg, but he had no energy left for the fight. The next morning, after a brief taxi ride back to his original room, he found Meg asleep next to Randy. Her head was on his arm as a pillow, and he had pulled her in against him, his chin resting on top of her head. Dave turned away from the sleeping duo, trying to decide if he needed to step into the hallway or if he could contain his temper quietly. "Don't think you're not going to hear about this," Dave whispered, "This is your last warning, Orton. Otherwise, Meg's not staying at my place, she's staying somewhere you can't find her. You're <em>not<em> helping. You're _confusing _her."


	7. The Lost Things

Welcome purelyfictionalstories and YinandYang1234! Glad you've hopped on board, and please, please, message me if there's anything you want to know, want to ask, or think I could be doing better. I love hearing from my readers! Also, if you haven't, please check out Analeptic - it'll help Malum make a bit more sense.

To everyone who's stuck with me this far, I thank you. I know I can be a bear to deal with, especially when updates take for-ev-er. Though, just ask nattie – I spent a whole day just dealing with Randy's shirt!

Speaking of nattiebroskette: She's just posted Chapter NINETY-TWO of her story Shielded...please go read. It's lovely. She's lovely. LOVELY!

Onward!

* * *

><p>Randy expected to be given some time off in order to complete the movie; he didn't expect the extended period of time off he was given that included a demand for rehab for his back. However, in order for him to be given the time he needed, he had to agree to a face turn. It wasn't where he thought his character should go, but Meg could only make so much progress on his back without the proper equipment, and he needed time to fully engage in the rehab process – which meant no hotel beds, no taking bumps, no throwing other people around day in and day out. <em>'And I can't take you with me, can I? Even if you had your ID, wouldn't you need a passport? Don't those take forever to get? Whose fucking idea was it to film this in Canada? How do I even explain that you're back in the picture, that I want you to do my rehab, that I want...how do I explain?'<em>

Meg traveled further and further north with Randy and Dave, each stop bringing them closer and closer to good-bye until finally, it loomed over their heads, two shows away. She would be staying at Dave's apartment on the outskirts of Seattle while Randy was filming in Vancouver; Dave would continue traveling with the company.

If anyone backstage knew Meg was around, they didn't say anything – they were all too busy enjoying the new and improved Mr. Orton. Despite Randy's displeasure over his character's turn, he was more pleasant to talk to, easier to work with, and overall a kinder, gentler person to be around. A strange, centered calm settled over him when the company announced Joe's return date as December 20. _'Past a few of the pay dates, but that's better. I'd rather tag him at a house show. Less trouble for breaking script there. Or just fucking him up backstage. Whatever.'_

Randy tried to prepare Meg for his staged takedown before his pre-planned time off; the show at the First Niagara Center would also be his last before he left to begin work on the movie and on his back. _'And of course, our last show together has to be across the country from where you and I__need to end up. Just so, y'know, you can drive across the fucking nation by yourself.' _He knew she was used to the type of worked match he was going to pull off, the staging, the way the chairs were rigged, the way everyone was supposed to check their impacts, but he also knew she was going to see it through the lens of the beatings Jackson had laid on her. His back still wasn't up to work-speed, but he had to take shots and make it look convincing. That wasn't the difficult part; everything really _was_ painful. Randy noticed he was being called more often for drug screenings; not complete fools, the company was looking for signs he had slipped and was self-medicating for his injury. _'I don't need to, you idiots. I have Meg. But you don't need to know that.'_

In the hours and minutes before he went on, Randy was on edge – the last thing Meg would see would be him getting an ass-kicking, probably bleeding, definitely on a backboard – all things which would legitimately aggravate his injury, and then she'd be driving, ending up alone in Dave's apartment, while he'd be on a plane and then across an international border for nearly a month. _'I don't think we're even going to see each other before...we're not. I go to the arena, she packs and leaves. I just have to trust that she's really going to go to Seattle. That she won't run.' _There was always Skype, but it wasn't as though she could just walk into the next room and snap him with a rubber band, or throw an ice cube at him.

* * *

><p>-<em> "<em>_Meg, I'm going to fucking wreck__you! I swear, you're – I'm gonna – fuck!"_

_Randy dumped piles of ice chips and slush out of his right boot, positive there was no way he'd get it dry before his match. His foot had to be re-taped because it was soaked, his toes were cold, and the icy mess just kept pouring out of his boot, seemingly infinite. The mass of slush__was soft enough that he'd committed his right foot to a full dunk inside before he realized what was going on; the ensuing reflexive kick sent his boot flying against the wall, causing the contents to explode everywhere. What didn't explode required him to fetch the boot and shake, and shake, and shake it to get it out. All the while, the ice and slush in his left boot continued to melt, soaking it completely._

_Meg sauntered up to the doorway of the locker room, looking positively satisfied with herself, hands clasped behind her back around the handle of a gigantic craft-paper bag. "Something wrong in here? I swore I heard someone yelling, but it sounded like a girl. Maybe I should check the women's locker room."_

_The men in the locker room howled with laughter; Randy felt his face flush as he scooped a handful of boot-slush from the floor and flung it at Meg, missing wildly. He flecked her shirt with small bits of icy runoff, but mostly coated the wall next to her. _

"_I'm gonna throw the boot next! What the fuck were you thinking? I'm up second and these are soaked! What the fuck am I supposed to do now?" The locker room immediately went from amused to silent; Randy was clearly furious with Meg for her prank. He reached for his left boot, pouring a ridiculous amount of ice and water out of it. "And this one too? Meg, are you out of your fucking mind? I'm fucked! I can't go out there in these!" He threw the boot at the door frame; more water splattered out of it as it hit dangerously close to her face. Meg waved off the men who had stood up to get between her and Randy._

"_Right, dumbass," she laughed, "You can't go out there in those beat-ass, soggy boots that chew your feet apart. But you can go out there in these." She walked into the locker room, deftly avoiding the puddles from his boots, and swung the_ _paper bag onto the floor in front of her. Slowly, Meg pulled out a giant box wrapped in dark red paper and tied with a simple, dark grey bow, presenting it to Randy. "Happy birthday, asshole. And work on your aim while you're at it." She winked at him, flicked a small piece of slush from her shirt, and slipped from the room._

_Randy had almost forgotten about his birthday; Sam hadn't called, not that he expected her to after the divorce. His...almost girlfriend? Girl he had been seeing more frequently than was usual for him? Girl he fucked on the regular? Hadn't called or texted yet, either. The whole thing was starting to sour his mood. 'Leave it to Meg to come through for me. And I almost took her head off for it, because I'm a dick. Good job, Orton.'_

"_Well? The box?" John's voice carried from the back of the room. "Gonna open it, or what?"_

_Gently pulling the ribbon apart, following the seams of the paper, Randy unwrapped the package to reveal – to several appreciative low whistles – a pair of custom boots, outwardly appearing_ _almost exactly as his old ones were, except new, clean, bright, with proper padding, lifts, supports, eyelets that made sense and weren't tearing loose...everything he should have had, to keep him safe and functional, and everything he had never bothered adding to his gear out of apathy, irritation,_ _frustration...'And since she knows how I work, she really knows how these need to be for my lifts, to keep my ankles under me, to balance out my back...' Randy couldn't suppress a smile as he thumbed the edges of the soles. 'Meg...this was your whole stipend, you idiot. But thank you. Remind me to thank you.'_

_He stayed in that night, turning down offer after offer to go out for dancing, drinks, strippers, clubs, and headed straight to his hotel room, phone in hand, having decided he would both thank Meg and exact his revenge at the same time. "Goes around, comes around," he chuckled, as he pressed Send on his phone._

_Barely fifteen minutes later, Meg flew down the hallway, skidding past his room, then doubling back to pound on his door. "Are you okay? Can you let me in? Nevermind, don't get up, I'll be right back, I'll get the key from the desk!" Before she could run from his room, Randy allowed the door to creak open, and Meg shoved into Randy's pitch-black bedroom in a total panic._

"_Randy? Where are you? I can't believe it – those boots were custom! Which ankle is it? High sprain or low? Where are you? Where are the fucking lights? Jesus Christ, I can't see a fucking thing in here and you're -"_

_Randy took that moment to slam the door shut and grab Meg from behind. She shrieked as he swung her around in the air twice before he dropped her to the floor and ran like hell to the other side of the room, where he turned a table lamp on and fell against the wall, laughing hysterically._

"_You asshole! I thought you were hurt! That was your birthday present! Oh my God, you had me so scared! Don't you ever do that to me again!" Meg tried her best to look angry, but the corner of her mouth twitched once, twice, and then had to concede defeat from her position: on her ass, on the floor. __"__Fine," she laughed, __"__Fine, fine. You win this round. Your text message beats my ice boots. But did you like them?"_

"_Meg, they were perfect. I can't believe how comfortable they were. Best match of my life."_

"_It was a fucking three-minute -"_

"_Shut up and open the tequila. I had you come over for birthday shots and cheesy movies."_

"_Fine, but you're ordering a pizza, too."_

* * *

><p>Meg bit at the edges of her nails, alternating between that and fiddling with the phone Dave bought for her. She knew the match wouldn't be pretty, but she hadn't expected it to go the way it did, either. <em>'They stayed off his back at least. Sorta. Not that pounding on his head is any better. Colby was always really careful with that, so I know everything's okay...but this isn't okay.' <em>Meg had tried to call Randy an hour after the match; he hadn't answered. She knew nothing could be _too _wrong, or Dave would have called, so she assumed Randy was in the shower and packed her car. After her second call went unanswered, she lit a cigarette and dragged her fingernails down the car doors, smoking until she was down to the filter before deciding to start her drive. _'It's late, but it's not like I can sleep. I sleep, I wake up screaming. I'm too worried about him right now, anyway.' _Meg had no way of knowing Dave had pocketed Randy's phone and set it to mute. Randy had no way of knowing, either, asleep in the passenger seat of the SUV as Dave drove to the hotel.

An hour and a half later, Meg was cagey, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, leg aching, collarbone irritated under the pressure of the seatbelt, shifting left to right to try to take the tension out of her ribs. She finally slammed the car across three lanes of highway and up a lengthy off-ramp, ignoring the screeching brakes and blaring car horns behind her. _'Call, Meg. Make sure this isn't one of your more idiotic ideas.'_

Dave's personal phone rang; bleary-eyed due to the late hour, he rubbed his eyes and saw it was Meg. Pawing at the screen to answer the call, her voice poured out of the speaker before he could even get a greeting out.

"Dave, you're gonna kill me, but I'm headed to the airport. I know I can't get on a plane – I know I can't even get through security, and I don't know what plane he's on, or even what time he's going, but you do, and I just want to be sure he's okay, and it's such a bad idea, but I wanted to call you first and not just show up there and start wandering around and -"

"Meg, stop driving. Right now."

"Dave, you're not listening to me!"

"And you're not listening to me. Do you hear yourself right now? You're driving to where? To do what? You don't know where the airport is, and you don't know where Randy is, and just the fact you called me means that you're not sure about this."

Meg was suddenly, violently, inexplicably angry. She slammed the car onto the shoulder of the ramp, gravel spraying everywhere, unsure of why she felt on the verge of tears. _'I called him to make sure this was a good idea. He's telling me it isn't a good idea. Accept it. Why can't you accept it?' _Her knuckles were white as she gripped the steering wheel; she had no need to press the brake pedal as the car was in park, but she was trying to drive her foot through the floorboard, ignoring her shin's screams to stop the pressure. _'Because you don't want it. You want something else. What do you want?'_

"No, dumbfuck, I _called_ you because I need directions and I don't know how to use this phone's GPS to get them. I don't _remember _how." Frantic, Meg let go of the steering wheel, dug through the glove box, and balanced her phone, lighter, and cigarettes between her hands and around the steering wheel, trying to light a Parliament as she spoke. _'Randy would kill me. Never drive like this, Meg. This is how...accidents...happen...' _Meg shuddered slightly and dropped her lighter. _'Breathe, Meg. Cherry. Cigarette's gonna go out.' _Trying to steady her nerves and not caring about the fee she'd incur for smoking out the rental car, she inhaled deeply. "Are you going to help me, or do I have to make an ass of myself to him directly?"

"Meg, what are you actually trying to tell me?"

"Dave, I don't fucking want to be alone! I don't want to see anyone from the company, but I don't want to be in your apartment by myself, and I don't want him to leave. I can't see anyone, I don't have anyone, but I had him. All we did was talk, and it was nice, and now I don't even have that. So I'm going to a completely strange city to, what, just wait for...something?"

_'She's going to hate me for this, but I need her to keep driving.' _"Meg...he's already on the plane. Just get going. You can talk to him once he lands and gets some sleep. You, too, for that matter. You're going across the fucking country. Get yourself to a hotel. I'm going to be checking on you. Get back on the road and get going. Leave him alone. Randy will call you once he's in Vancouver and settled, okay?"

Meg could feel tears start to course down her face, but nothing in her voice broke in the ways her eyes did. "Fine, Dave. I'm driving now. I'll talk to you later." She pressed the red button on the screen to end the call, and after staring blankly at the phone, slammed it against the dashboard again and again until its circuits begged mercy and shut themselves off. Staring at the now-black screen, Meg tossed the phone into the back seat. She finished the car's climb up the ramp and headed down the other end of it, back onto the highway. Her tears continued for miles, soundlessly, her cigarette burning itself out in her hand.

* * *

><p>Throwing his towels down onto the floor, Randy limped out of the bathroom, showered, buried in sweats and a hoodie, looking thoroughly unhappy with the idea of a long flight to Vancouver. "Who was that?"<p>

"Oh, just the apartment complex. Double-checking the details."

"This late at night?" Randy's tone was decidedly skeptical; a phone call from an apartment complex manager well after midnight didn't make any sense.

"The manager's a personal friend; he knows how important Meg is to me. He wants this to be absolutely perfect. Get some sleep. Your flight is at six in the morning, so you know you're getting up in not-enough-hours."

Randy made a non-committal grunt and inched toward the bed, his back screaming at him every step of the way. _'Something isn't adding up. I should call Meg. She's probably driving right now, and it sucks to drive alone.'_

It was then that he realized he couldn't find his phone, and systematically tore apart his bags looking for it, refusing to sleep, the expression on his face a combination of pain and fear. Dave stayed awake watching him the entire time, deciding to sneak the missing phone back into Randy's luggage in the morning.

* * *

><p>Refusing to stop driving, Meg's mind wandered to Randy's movie. She couldn't help but be jealous; she had looked up several of his co-stars while she had waited at slow gas pumps, and they were all – compared to her – beautiful, talented, and rich. <em>'Wonder how many times he gets to kiss them? Why are you even thinking like that? Stop it. Randy doesn't even look at you like that. And how would he? You're like the dorky little sister.'<em> She floored the car, trying to get away from herself.

Meg didn't stop at a hotel that night, or the next, or the next. Sleeping in her car was chancy, she knew, but she stuck to the well-Iit parking lots of 24-7 big-box stores, in large part because the bright lights and constant traffic prevented her from ever fully drifting off. She refused to go into the stores themselves, the crowds were overwhelming in daylight, and the uncertainty of what could be in shadows at night prompted her to check and re-check the locks on the doors of her vehicle. It never occurred to her that her phone's battery would dwindle, then die, rather quickly. The phone would be silent – off – for the duration of her drive.

It took her four days to get to Seattle, and most of the fifth day trying to find Dave's apartment in the Olympic Heights area. She hadn't realized he was on the north end of the city and had driven in on the entirely wrong side of town. It was dusk by the time she parked at the complex and hauled her suitcase up to the fifth floor. The apartment was plain, barely decorated, and entirely Dave-like in its utilitarian furnishings. _'It's empty. I can think in empty. I can even think too much, in empty.'_

She buried her face in the pillows of Dave's bed and screamed, again and again, until her throat was raw. Sleep finally consumed her as the horizon consumed the sun, and she stayed across the bed for hours. It wasn't til the next morning – the sixth day, by Randy's count – that Meg finally remembered to charge her phone.


	8. Blackouts, Organized and Otherwise

Randy had been in Vancouver for five days without any contact from Meg. At first, he thought she simply didn't want to talk while driving, which made sense – she was so edgy in cars, he reasoned, she wouldn't want the added distraction of trying to juggle a phone and a steering wheel at the same time. Then one day stretched into two, then three, and by the time day five rolled around, Randy was flubbing lines, barking orders at stagehands, barely eating, and not taking the least bit of care with his back. _'Where is she? Why hasn't she called me? She ran again. She had to. Something scared her, or she couldn't handle it.' _He paced aimlessly in his trailer; occasionally a crew member or co-star banged on his door, asked him to come out and shoot scenes or be social, but he did the minimum necessary or ignored it altogether. _'No. Meg promised me. She promised me she would listen. She wouldn't run. Something had to happen to her.'_

Five days, six nights. Saturday night. The entire film lot had cleared out, everyone having made enough friends and acquaintances on set to make for a palatable evening in downtown's many bars and clubs, except for Randy. His reputation as an irritable, anti-social git was firmly cemented, so he spent his evening drinking his dinner and pacing back and forth in tighter and tighter circles in his trailer. Irritation grew to agitation, agitation grew to rage, which gave way to him overturning a chair by slamming it to the ground. The rotation and fast movement nearly brought him to his knees; he snapped his hands down to his lower back and yowled.

In a panic, Randy clawed for his phone and dialed the number Dave had given him for Meg. When the line cut to voicemail for the umpteenth time, Randy found himself remembering only snippets of the night after that point, ending with him on the phone with Dave. He remembered an overwhelming sense that something had gone terribly wrong with Meg, and then anger that Dave had never told him the name of his apartment complex. He remembered trying to make more phone calls – to Meg, to Dave, even to Joe – but Meg didn't answer, Dave couldn't understand him and had to keep calling back, and Joe was kind enough to not pick up.

The night blurred further after that; there was more pacing, something else broke, loudly, and then the trailer was markedly darker. Randy's phone kept ringing; it was never Meg, it was Dave, and Randy remembered eventually telling Dave to stop calling back, just in case Meg _was_ trying to call. Then he opened another bottle of tequila. And then a third. The room was both falling away and compressing in on him, and he couldn't organize anything in his head. One minute, he wanted to find Dave and ask for help. The next, go to Meg and make sure she was safe. The next, strangle Joe, slowly. The next, throw yet another object around his small – and yet somehow still shrinking – trailer. So instead, he drank and drank. By the time he was drunk enough to shake away the panic, he had missed six calls from Dave. By the time he realized he was going to throw up, he nearly missed the sink as well.

Laying in the doorway of the tiny film-lot trailer's bathroom, Randy slapped for his phone when it rang. He knew, without looking, who it would be.

"I'm gonna walk out, Dave. I know you live in Seattle, I can find her. I found her once already."

"Calm down, Randy. What happened?"

Dave was no less concerned that he hadn't heard from Meg in so many days, but he trusted her. If he didn't, he'd have gone out of his mind with worry years ago. Not to mention, Dave had already called his apartment complex. Meg's rental car, along with Meg, had arrived earlier that morning. _'Later than I like, but she made it. That's all I need to know, and when she feels like it, she'll call. And it's nothing Randy needs to know, period. He needs to leave her alone.' _Randy tried, as best as the alcohol would let him, to explain what had happened, what had gone through his head, and at the end, all Dave could do was sigh.

"You've both lost it. You sound like you had a panic attack, or close to it. Besides, you used to trust Meg. Remember all the times you said she would be fine when she went to New Orleans? And she-"

"And she almost _fucking _died, Dave! And what came back _isn't_ Meg anymore! You know that!"

"And what you're turning into isn't _you_. Get a hold of yourself. She's fine."

"You talked to her? You _know_ that she's fine?" Irritation was starting to creep back into Randy's voice, and he rolled from his back to try to look for the third bottle of tequila. It was a poor decision; the room began to spin wildly and he had to slam his head against the floor to make it stop.

"No." Half a lie, but Dave didn't care.

"Then you don't know! You don't know shit!"

Dave, no less irritated, finally lost his temper. "And you've come up with _zero_ plans tonight, Randy, other than to get _completely_ bombed. Here, I know! I'll call the film lot, get you a few days off, and you can just go hang out with her at my place. That'll fix everything! And if she's not there, then you've got a few days to drive around Seattle and make sure she's not just, you know, wandering around lost or something. Meg's _so_ helpless, you know. There, there's a _great_ plan."

The line was silent for a few seconds. They stretched to minutes, and Dave could hear Randy's faint breathing in the background. When he spoke, it was as though a small child was asking for an impossible favor. "Would you? Please? I'll pack. I'm packing right now. I don't even care if they say no, I'm just leaving."

Dave smacked himself in the forehead, loudly; he didn't mean to give Randy the idea to simply leave. The consequences of that could go far beyond just tanking the movie and Randy was in no condition to understand that. "Randy. Don't do that. You know I wasn't being serious, and you don't need that trouble. The film company would have a field day, Corporate would probably fire you -"

"I need _her_, Dave."

"You know, there's another thing. Why would I enable you? You're not going to my apartment, Randy. No. She has this time away from you to get her head together. I thought having you nearby would be good in case there was an emergency, but it's bad for both of you."

"Meg isn't -"

"No, listen. This is for both of you – to help you, not to hurt you. Whether or not you see it, Meg's issues are wearing you down, too. You can't just _fix_ her. You're not going to take all of her problems on yourself – look at you! Look at what you're doing, right now. Go ahead and be pissed off, but you need the space just as much as she does, because you have _no_ perspective right now. You're acting just like you did after Sam, and over what? A relationship you aren't in and don't have. I'm not going to let you wreck yourself, or her. Go sober up and get some sleep. Finish your movie, go home, and get through PT. If you talk to her, fine. If you don't, that might even be better. Maybe we're all better if we don't, right now."

Dave didn't hear the line drop after he brought up Sam; Randy was looking at his phone in stunned silence. _'I am not...this isn't the...I don't even know if she's there. I don't know where she is.' _The room continued to tilt around him, and he draped an arm over his eyes, trying to shut out the spinning. _'Tomorrow. Tomorrow I push to get this stupid film wrapped, and then I find her. Dave's right about one thing – I have to end this. Just not the way he thinks.'_

* * *

><p>Meg sat on the floor in Dave's bedroom. She hadn't moved much in the past day; from the bed to the floor, occasionally to the bathroom, and back again. Food wasn't appealing, she didn't care to learn the neighborhood, and her neighbors were a mystery that she chose to leave alone. She watched her phone light up again and again, but she never picked up to see who was calling. She didn't care. Her mind spun with a single thought, as it had for days, now precisely seven of them: <em>'You got on the plane without saying<em> _goodbye.'_

Eventually, it occurred to her that at least some of the calls might have accompanying messages. _'Dave __probably called the apartment complex to make sure my car showed up, though. It probably doesn't matter if I talk to him.'_ Meg traced her fingers along the edges of the phone, breathed deeply, and finally tried to check for messages. She couldn't remember how to use a majority of the phone's features, but voicemail came with its own icon. _'I think this is how I check, but how do I tell if I have messages in the first place? I used to have this phone. Why don't I remember?'_

In the middle of the second message – both of them were from Randy – Meg let out a scream that brought neighbors to her door, pounding on it and yelling into the apartment to see if she was okay. Eventually the complex manager arrived and unceremoniously let himself in.

"You're Meg, right? Are you okay? Dave said you would be here..."

"And now I'm about to not be here." Meg hadn't moved much out of her suitcase; the few things that had come out were now being slammed unceremoniously back in. She whipped the zipper shut so quickly she clipped part of her finger in the track, but barely noticed the blood.

"Dave said this would probably happen. He wanted me to call him." The man reached for his phone and began to dial, but Meg snatched it from his hands and whipped it out into the hallway, narrowly missing the heads of the people who had gathered in her doorway.

"Whoa, kiddo. Take it easy." The man's voice had gone from calm to exceedingly cautious.

"You...get the fuck out of my way." Meg's voice was dangerous, and she shoved past him as much as her slight frame and damaged leg would allow, scanning the counter for the envelope of money Dave had left her. _'He said emergencies – well, he just created one. Good job.'_ Snatching the envelope, she stormed out the door, the crowd cutting her a wide path as she went. Each step of the staircase was misery, and she had picked up her suitcase with her left arm - _'Like a complete idiot, Meg,' - _but she refused to stop and show even a hint of weakness to the people she knew were watching. Throwing the suitcase into the back of the car, she hobbled around to the driver's side, let herself in, and drove out of the parking lot in a fury.

The cord of the wall charger still dangled from her phone when she pulled into a gas station some twenty miles from the apartment complex, thoroughly lost, though relatively sure she could buy a car-phone-charger and an international map inside the attached convenience store. "Randy would appreciate this whole being-lost thing," she mumbled to herself. Leaning back in her seat, she restarted her voicemail from the beginning.

_'Hey kiddo...I'll keep it short. I wanted to call you before Dave gave you the phone, just to leave you an official first message and tell you not to worry about anything. The match, the movie...the apartment. Really, don't worry about the apartment. I won't be that far away, and if it sucks – don't tell Dave I said this – but if it sucks, I'll find something better for you. And it's Dave's place, so it probably won't suck, but it won't be all girly, either. Which is probably okay, since you're not all girly. And you know what I mean, so don't get all pissy about it. Plus, you've gotta go through his stuff and tell me if there's anything we can use for blackmail. Listen, I gotta go, some asshole is calling me for a promo – I'll call you before I get on the plane.'_

The system toned, counted to the second message, stated the time – 5:32 in the morning – and toned again. She dug the box to the phone out of her suitcase while she listened, knowing the instructions were inside. She could figure out how to skip to the third message later; right now she just needed to grit her teeth and hear the rest of what Randy had to say in this one and then end the call.

_'Hey Meggie. I hope this isn't me calling too much...I couldn't find my phone last night, and...I don't know. It was weird. The match was shitty, everything hurts. You probably saw it, I don't need to tell you. Obviously, my phone turned up. It got into my pants pocket from the arena, but I don't remember putting it there. I guess Colby got me good, huh? That apartment must be something special. Dave was on the phone with the complex manager past __midnight, trying to get shit set up for you. He said the guy's a friend of his, but still...be careful. My plane is leaving in...a half hour? I don't know. I wish you were here to talk to. You're my Meggie, you know? I miss you. Be careful driving. You promised you'd get there. Try to call me, okay? Even if I'm on the plane, leave me a message. Just pretend like you're talking to me. Shit, it's probably just as good, right? Lo- er, bye, Meg. Talk to you later._

Meg ended the call to voicemail and rested her head on the steering wheel. "Five thirty-two. Five motherfucking thirty-two in the morning. At the airport. And Dave was on the phone at midnight. Think, Meg. Think. When did you call Dave?" She punched at buttons on the phone, luck guiding her into the list of completed calls. "Dave," Meg whispered, "Why would you lie to me? You knew I would go to Seattle anyway; where else could I live? Randy was going to be right there in Vancouver. Why lie?" There, in the list, at 12:38, sat Dave's number. "You were talking to me, not to the apartment guy. And Randy wasn't on the plane."

Meg sat in silence for some time before attempting more spoken logic. Her mind was reeling; pieces weren't adding up – or rather, they were, and in ways that made her skin crawl. "Why did I think Randy didn't call me? I should have gotten his first voicemail...well...first." A quick call to customer service solved that. She'd had the voicemail. She didn't know what the small symbol in the top bar of her phone meant – either for the missed call or the waiting message. She saw them, ignored them, talked to Dave, and pounded the phone into the dashboard before ignoring it for the remainder of the drive. _'You fucking idiot, Meg. What the fuck is wrong with you? What happened to you in that accident? Nobody said you hit your head; why can't you remember how to use a fucking phone? This is the same phone you used to have!'_

She shook her head, hard. _'Dave said he was already gone, before 12:38. But he was in the airport waiting for a call from me, in the morning. He didn't get to Vancouver until...well, however long it takes to fly from the east coast to the west coast. So, a few hours of radio silence, then driving, sleep, getting set up...I probably shouldn't have another message til the next day. Unless there's one in there from Dave. And holy fuck, do I have something for him. I can wait to check the rest.'_

Meg smiled. "No," she said, looking at her phone, "No, I know you better than that, Ran. You'd call me falling asleep just to snore into the phone. I'll guess you called from baggage claim. No – better yet. Airport bathroom." Laughing, she turned the engine over and pulled out of the gas station lot, driving north. "This has to be one of my better ideas. Definitely. Oh, Meg. You do the dumbest shit, sometimes."


	9. Shelter in Place

Welcome dallas1990! Hopefully you're finding Malum enjoyable; if not, try giving Analeptic a spin. It helps make this boondoggle make a bit more sense. Questions, comments, concerns, general chat? Message me!

* * *

><p>It took Meg a little over four hours to make it to the border between the US and Canada. She knew she wasn't crossing it; the lack of ID and passport made that completely infeasible and she wasn't willing to risk an international incident. However, small towns littered the border, so she settled on Blaine. <em>'Peace Arch State Park? Too busy. Crawling with families who want to let their kids run around after being trapped in a car. Blaine Marina <em>_Park? Cold, windy, and probably __limited to boaters who aren't going to recognize him. Perfect. Now I just have to hope he...doesn't hate me. Will actually show up. His girlfriend won't nix the idea. Whatever.'_ It occurred to Meg, vaguely, that Randy hadn't mentioned his girlfriend – any girlfriend, really – the entire time they'd been around each other, and wondered if that was by accident or design, but pushed the thought from her head. _'Not the point of this, Meg. The point of this is the apology. The nine millionth apology that you owe him. Can you stop fucking up, so you can stop apologizing?'_

Another hour later, in the parking lot of Blaine Marina, staring out into Semiahmoo Bay, she felt ready to dial Randy's number, to leave him voicemail.

It was unfortunate when he picked up; Meg hadn't prepared for that.

"Meg?"

Meg's voice caught in her throat; she forced a croak out but no words came. _'Meg? Come on! Before he hangs up!'_

"Meg? Come on, Meggie. Talk to me."

She inhaled deeply and looked across the bay again, trying to find the mark where the grey sky met the grey water. There was no clear line. _'Is there ever, Meg? You always just dive.'_

"Ran? I'm in Blaine. And he lied to both of us."

* * *

><p>It was Randy's turn to sit in silence; Meg had more patience than he did and was willing to simply sit and watch the birds circle and dive for fish until he was ready to speak again.<p>

"I don't...what do you...Meg, start over. Are you okay?"

"I started driving after your match. After Dave gave me the phone. But...I didn't remember how to use it. Like, what all the icons and buttons and shit mean. You left me a message, and I fucked up. I didn't know what the little envelope thing meant, so I didn't check it. I don't know why I can't remember." Meg's voice caught and she cleared her throat, hard, to keep her voice from hitching. "Anyway, I was upset. I thought you didn't call to say goodbye after the match. So I pulled over and called Dave. I called after midnight."

"Motherfucker."

"I know, Ran. I know."

"Look, Meg, you know I wouldn't just leave and not call you. I couldn't find my phone, it was in my pants from the arena, but I -"

"Ran, I'm sorry. It's my fault. I figured out my voicemail and listened to your message just now. And honestly...I think you didn't lose your phone. You looked so out of it when they were taking you up from the ring. It wouldn't have been hard for Dave to-"

"So when he said he talked to the apartment complex, he-"

"-Was really talking to me."

"Were you okay?"

"No. Well, yes, but no. I was trying to get him to tell me how to go to the airport. I wanted to see you before you left. I didn't – don't – know how to use the GPS thing on my phone."

Randy couldn't help the smile that crossed his face; for the first time in the week and few days since he'd arrived in Vancouver, he felt a genuine warmth in himself. _'She...missed me? Was worried? Whatever it was, she cared. She wanted to see me.'_ Somewhere behind him, a stagehand thumped on his door. Randy ignored it.

"Ran? Everything okay? It sounds like something's banging." Meg furrowed her brows.

"Yeah, no, it's fine. Did you make it to the airport?"

"No, for two reasons. Sorta three. One, no map."

"Fuck me, _you_ were unprepared for something?" Randy laughed, loudly, his face beginning to ache from the smile.

"Yeah, yeah. Don't rub it in." Meg lit a cigarette; if she couldn't have a drink to steady her nerves, she could at least smoke. "Two, Dave wouldn't tell me how to _get_ to the fucking airport." Meg exhaled, blowing a steady grey stream out the window. _'Like a whale in the bay.' "_Three – and Ran, promise me something?"

"What, Meg?"

"Just be chill. Three, that was when he told me you were _already _on the plane and I needed to leave you alone."

The line went silent, and Meg waited again, smoking, patient, letting him think. _'We've both been screwed over, you're just not used to it the way I am. The way it feels to get fucked so many times.' _The pause continued, seemingly endless, and it was only Randy's heavy footfalls in his trailer that told Meg he was still on the line.

"Meg, where did you say you were?"

"Right now?" Meg inhaled again, more smoke, the end of the cigarette harsh. She flicked it out the window, counted the rest of her pack, and took out another, trying to get her lighter to cooperate with her hands. "I drove up to Blaine. I packed my shit, took the money Dave left me, and booked it out of there. I still have the car, and most of the money left over from Jackson, too. I'm safe, I'm fine, and I did what I promised – I went to his apartment. I just...couldn't stay there. Not like that." She inhaled deeply, looking in the sideview mirror to be sure the cigarette caught.

"And you can't get up here."

"Nope." The birds were still circling, diving, Meg whaling smoke out of the window of her car.

"Okay. How about...I'm going to shoot for the day – we're ahead two days, I think – and come down. I'll figure it out. I'll see what the director will give me. Can you get a place to stay?"

"I'm good where I'm at. I kinda have a thing with this car. We get along."

"Meggie..." Randy's voice immediately went on edge; he didn't want her in a car in a strange town on the border of who knew what.

"Ran, look. I made it out here, didn't I? I'll be fine. We can meet here tonight, tomorrow, whatever. You call me, since you have a schedule and all I have is time."

"Where is here?"

"Blaine Marina Park. Straight down I-5. Can't miss, even for you."

"Shut up, Meg. Don't, I mean...but shut up."

"Just call me. I miss you. Don't fuck up anything for the film, though, okay? I'll be here. I'm sure as fuck not going back there. And hey?"

The thumping started again; Randy glared at the door, but ignored it a second time. "Yeah, Meg?"

"Don't say anything to Dave. If he calls you, play dumb. That should be easy, right?" The tease in her voice was obvious, and Randy wanted to reach through his phone to ruffle her hair.

"I'll behave, Meg. I promise. I'm just...thanks. You called. I was getting scared."

"Don't say that. I'm always fine. You know that. Get going. Sooner you're done, sooner you're here."

* * *

><p>Randy whipped his trailer's door open, nearly knocking the crew member off the small set of steps just outside. Jabbering something about being there soon, in thirty minutes, as fast as possible, just needing to find one thing, Randy ran haphazardly from closet to bed and back again, packing as much as he could in the small amount of time he could give himself before he knew it would be too obvious that he was up to something. On set, he blazed through scene after scene with an enthusiasm that bordered on manic, not needing retakes, calls for lines, or prompts – until he had to get a bit personal with his female co-star. There, Randy balked a bit, his mind not letting him cooperate fully with what the director was telling him to do. <em>'I promised I would get through this, just kiss the bitch. Close your eyes.'<em>

His end result was completing his portion of the shoot several days ahead of schedule on his scripted work, with a compromise of three days available to him for rest and relative freedom while they set for stunts. _'As long as they don't involve me or my back, they can set for anything they want.' _After confirming he was free to go absolutely anywhere as long as he came back clean, sober, and in one piece, Randy called for a company car and took off down I-5, certain he would eventually end up in Blaine. _'Meg would have told me if I needed any other roads besides that. She knows I can't navigate for shit.'_

Shockingly, the drive was only 45 minutes. Randy almost didn't realize he was at the border crossing until he nearly plowed into the car ahead of him. Slamming on the brakes, he steered into a lane and waited for his turn at the booth, praying he'd brought the correct paperwork with him and that the entrance to the marina would still be open. _'And that she's awake, she still wants to meet me, we actually have a place to go, I can find her because it's starting to get dark...this can turn into a giant mess...it's me and Meg, it's probably supposed to turn into a giant mess.' _The border agent raised an eyebrow at the high-speed entrance, but Randy's sheepish grin and shrug charmed his way through to stateside. He swooped to the side of the customs area as soon as he was released, hoping he wasn't acting suspicious or blocking traffic, and called Meg. Trying to add to the authenticity of his plight, he dug for a map and spread it out across the dashboard, thinking it might make him look desperate.

"Ran? That was quick. What, five hours? Six?" She yawned; he could hear seabirds in the background and could tell she'd been napping, wherever she was.

"Let's say I was highly motivated. Where am I going?"

"Depends on where you are."

"Smartass. I'm sitting at the border. Do I stay on I-5?"

Meg shuffled a map of her own; Randy chuckled dryly. "Oh, you can't navigate either?" He almost regretted saying it; directions were a point of pride with Meg and he didn't want to upset her. _'I need to call Remy. Meg might not be ready to see those reports, but I am. Something's still not adding up with her.'_

"I can navigate just fine. Most of the time. I just want to get you here. Stay on I-5 til you hit 276 South. That's the only road change. 276 turns into Marina Drive. Then you're there. Once you run out of road, you're either sitting in the bay or parked next to me, your pick. Shouldn't be more than 15 minutes. If you go past 548, it's too far."

"You know I didn't write any of that down. Can you text it to me?"

Meg sighed, heavily, and Randy knew he made a mistake in asking. _'You're out of practice, Orton. Try again.'_

"Er, Meg, how about if I text you, you can reply with the directions? That'll be easier. Stuff should just pop up on the screen."

"Yeah. Okay, yeah. I can do that." She rubbed her temples. _'Please, just get here. I need someone I can talk to. Even if you can't really stay.'_

* * *

><p>A quick text message later, a brief wait, Meg's fingers nearly rubbing the finish off her medallion, Randy finally pulled up next to her. Before he managed to put the car fully in park she had flown out of her driver's seat and into the parking lot, tearing at the handle of his passenger door as though the outside air were poison. Hurling the door open so hard it bounced shut behind her, Meg literally leaped into the passenger seat of Randy's SUV, then past it, then was somehow nearly entirely in his lap, hanging around his neck, holding on to him in something well past a greeting and bordering on thorough desperation.<p>

Without knowing how, his arms were around Meg, his face ducked next to hers so her could whisper to her, tilting, turning, cursing at the seatbelt and fumbling for the release so it would stop digging into his hip, trying to show her everything was fine, push her right leg out from under her so she wouldn't aggravate it, tell her he was here and nothing else could go wrong. If he had to swear to never open the doors again, he would.

After a few minutes of struggle, Randy gave up – _'And don't I always let her win?'_ - and let Meg simply burrow into him, waiting for her to settle herself and hoping it would be enough to just still his arms around her. It seemed to work; Meg slowly relaxed her grip and let her arms slide down his chest, resting her hands against the sides of his neck and turning her face down, into his shoulder. Randy felt his skin chill under her palms, could smell cigarette and caramel and roses surrounding her, and buried his face fully in her hair, breathing deeply. _'This is such a bad idea, Orton. What are you doing? Stop. Dave doesn't have to be right. You need to stop.'_

"I didn't mean for you to come down here if you were seeing your girlfriend, jackass. Let's just get coffee and then you should go back up." Meg's eyes were half open, and she was rubbing her thumb idly across his neck while she curled in his lap.

"My...what? Meg, the fuck are you talking about?" Carefully, he tilted her away from him, trying not to put any pressure on her shoulder that might also aggravate her collarbone.

"You smell like perfume. _Strong_ perfume. And," she held her left hand up, fingers covered in a sticky red gel, "She has good taste in lipstick." Meg offered up a wan smile, and moved to slide away from Randy, suddenly feeling hotly embarrassed for asking him to see her at all. _'See, Meg? You're still here, fucking up his life. You can't get anything right. Even dying. Try it again, Meg, maybe the second time's the charm."_

Randy's mind spun, unable to place why he might have lipstick on his neck and perfume on his clothing, and then it occurred to him – the last few scenes before he'd left, the actress he was supposed to woo, romance, love, whatever – it must have been hers. He'd had to cringe his way through kissing her; his mind was entirely elsewhere. And now he couldn't suppress his laughter, pulling Meg back against him, refusing to let her slip out of his lap.

"Wow, Meg, really?" He grabbed her hand and rubbed it against his shirt, smearing the lipstick away. "Really? First of all, just...no."

"You just wrecked your shirt, dumbass." Meg looked thoroughly unimpressed.

"I don't care. Second, there is no girlfriend, here or anywhere. You know I'm not seeing anyone...don't you?" Meg looked at him blankly. "Okay. Maybe not. Anyway," Randy continued, "The perfume and whatever else, that's all from filming today. I rushed through the last shit we did, and I didn't change before I left, and-" Randy caught himself, stopping abruptly.

"What?" The look on Randy's face was odd; Meg couldn't figure out where he was going.

"I don't know her name. The actress, or whatever. I've been up there, what, a week or so?" His face read somewhere between amused and perplexed.

"Would it make you feel better if you _did_ know her name?" Meg's hands went back to Randy's neck.

"It'd make me feel better if she didn't wear shitty perfume."

Meg gave a vague, dry sounding chuckle, but tucked the top of her head back under Randy's chin and leaned into him again, both watching the bay as the birds circled and dipped, turning cartwheels in the air.

* * *

><p>Slowly, Randy's head tilted further and further down onto Meg's, and he drifted into a warm, comfortable sleep. Meg allowed herself the luxury of relaxing, daring a slight adjustment or two in his lap to prevent the pain in her leg and side from worsening. They stayed there for far longer than they should have, stars visible through wispy clouds when Meg finally forced herself to begin to wake him. <em>'I don't want to move, but we can't stay here all night, either. What are we going to do? We have three days...does tonight even count? He didn't tell me.'<em>

As if reading her mind, Randy tightened his arms around her and mumbled incoherently down into her hair, only to have to lift his head back, try to disentangle her hair from his lips – _'Fucking – did I drool on her head? Please tell me I didn't just drool on her head.' – _and repeat himself. "It's okay, I took care of a hotel. Three days starts tomorrow; tonight is a freebie."

"Hey, Ran?"

Meg turned as much as she could, winced, and then forced herself to turn further, rotating her hips under her, forcing her body to cooperate with what her mind wanted her to do. She slipped her arms over his shoulders, brought her face up next to his, and hovered there, terrifyingly still, for seconds that stretched out alongside the miles of horsetail clouds over the parking lot before she began, quietly. "I'm sorry, for everything. For not calling, for Dave lying, for being such a pain in the ass," Meg whispered, "And thank you. You always – just – thank you."

Randy, too asleep for intelligence and just awake enough for coordination, shifted underneath her, dropping her further down in his lap. _'Stop, Orton. This is a really good bad idea, but don't do this to her.'_ His hands, warm, still ring-rough, ran up her arms, his right settling at the nape of her neck, his left using her shoulder to ease her fully in front of him, then continuing upward, his thumb finding her cheekbone and running along it, back and forth, fingers curling under her chin. His right hand began a slow dance away from her neck, across the top of her shoulder, the line of his thumb lightly crossing the scar under her collarbone. Randy's eyes never left hers, both he and Meg so drowsy that neither was sure if they should be concerned about what they were doing. Eventually, her hands slipped up to cover his, then her fingers were between his, stilling his movements. _'Or it was just a really bad, bad idea, Orton. Look what you did.'_ He closed his eyes and sighed, his frustration audible.

Meg's smile was gentle, drowsy. "No, not for that. Security's behind us." As if on cue, the SUV behind them flashed its lights, and Meg slid from Randy's lap, releasing his hands as she moved into the passenger seat. Randy groaned and opened the driver's door, trying to carefully extricate himself from his seat, grab his wallet, adjust his pants without Meg noticing, and pray that the security officer wouldn't make an issue about Meg or her lack of ID. Turning on the charm and leaning into the officer's window, Randy tried his best to concoct a story that would make their presence seem innocent and not get either of them arrested.

Nearly twenty minutes later, he came back to his SUV, rolling his eyes as the officer honked his horn twice and turned around in the lot, driving away from them. Randy waved politely, then knocked on the window for Meg to help open the door. Meg, who had her feet up on the dashboard, leaned over as fast as her ribs would let her and grabbed the handle, trying to get Randy in and seated as quickly as she could, her face full of worry. "What happened?"

"Nothing. I had to sign, like, forty fucking autographs, though. My back is locked up from leaning over the window. I got you a pass to leave your car here overnight, so we can drive together. I don't -" Randy hissed, and grabbed his back. "Yeah. Why did I have you open the front door?"

"Because you're going to move to the back, lay down, and let me drive?"

"Right. Here, go put this on your car and get your shit." Randy tossed her the parking pass, and leaned across the driver's seat to wait for Meg to come back. Her suitcase in tow, Meg tossed it in next to Randy's luggage and limped around to the driver's side, gently edging him back toward the passenger door.

"You need help, or you okay to get in?"

"Like I would let you help anyway?" Randy elbowed at her, but Meg could see the pain in his face.

"C'mon, Ran. Lift up with me. I can work on you when we get there. Actually..." Meg paused, midway through guiding him up into the seat, "Where is there? You never said where we're going, and I swear, if you booked something ridiculous I'm going to -"

"It's just around the bay. You've been looking at it all night, I think. Or if you walked to the ends of the piers. That thing." Randy gestured west with his head, not trusting his back to allow him to lift his arms and point.

"_That_ thing? That thing looks like a goddamned boathouse mansion. What the fuck did you do?"

"Semiahmoo Resort. I thought you'd like the name?"

Meg snorted. "I do! I do. I just...you do too much sometimes, you know?" She shut the door, then paused to put her hand on the window before turning to move toward the driver's door, knowing it would take her a minute to climb up.

Inside the empty SUV, Randy shook his head and muttered to himself. "It's not too much, Meg, it's for you."


	10. Seventy Hours in Heaven

This one's going to be a text bomb, guys. Sorry not sorry? The title did say seventy hours...

(Oh – and for anyone questioning the repeated themes, there's a reason. It'll become clear.)

This chapter wouldn't have been possible without all the love and kindness from the amazing Nattiebroskette...if you haven't read her work, please do. :)

* * *

><p>(Nobody's Counting, Yet)<p>

The drive around the bay to the resort took exactly fifteen minutes for Meg to complete, which was half the time it took to ease Randy out of the SUV and in the building. She begged him to wait for her to get the keycard and come back, but he insisted on walking in with her. Meg allowed it only because Randy seemed to have forgotten about the luggage; she reasoned she could drop him in their room and run back alone to grab their bags. _'He's not exactly going to be able to chase me down, anyway. One quick lap back to grab our stuff, and we're all set.' _The irony of their reversal of situations wasn't lost on Meg, and she had to work to suppress a smile the entire way up to their room. _'Wasn't too long ago he did this for me...and I should thank him.'_ Settling him on the bed and swearing him to zero movement, Meg ran back down to their SUV, grabbed all of their bags, and was grateful for the help a bellboy offered in getting them up to their room. Letting herself in and backing through the door, Meg was smart enough to avert her eyes and call over her shoulder into the room. _'How many times have I walked in on him changing? Eesh.'_

"I'm back, Ran. And I checked, room service runs late, so we're all set." He was prone on the bed, shirt already off, looking at the doorway, his head resting on his forearms. "And clearly you're ready for bed, so nevermind."

"Wha- no, Meg, I was – if you – I should have asked -"

"Shut up, Randy. I'm teasing. I told you I'd work on your back. Doesn't mean I'm not ordering dinner first. I'm starving, and you're thinning out like you're on a cut cycle. Accidental or intentional?"

He shrugged as best he could from the position, and listened as she ordered both chicken marsala and pasta puttanesca, plus extra plates. Meg side-eyed him before scuttling into the bathroom and shutting the door so he couldn't hear the rest of her call. After a few minutes she emerged, a smug look on her face, and dropped herself heavily on the edge of the bed. "Forty-five minutes for food, which is good, because guess what you're doing before I work on your back?"

Randy groaned. "Meg, c'mon. Do you know how hard it was to get my shirt off?"

"Probably very, which is why you should have waited for me instead of being a stubborn asshole."

"I was being helpful," he pouted, "And _you're_ just unappreciative." He moved his left arm just enough to try for a swat at her, with Meg seeing his tattoos for the first time in over a week. She cringed slightly and waited, pleasantly surprised when nothing happened, and continued to stare at them. Randy noticed, but said nothing about it. "So, what did you want me to do before room service got here?"

"Hm?" Meg shook her head, trying to focus on him and not his arms. "Honestly? I don't remember. It sucks being flaky like this. I can't remember anything, anymore. I mean, look at my fucking phone and that whole mess. It's so dumb. _I'm_ so dumb."

Randy felt his heart sink. Part of his plan in bringing Meg here was to put her back in that bubble of safety he felt he built for her when they were in Tampa, and he was failing, quickly. _'You can't fix her, but you're supposed to help her...what helps right now? Think.'_ He reached across the bed and grabbed a handful of her shirt, pulling harder than he needed to, given that she was more lost in her own thoughts than she was paying attention to him. She half-yelped in surprise and toppled sideways, landing on her left side and wincing. _'Fucking brilliant, Orton. Way to pay attention.'_ Meg stayed there, still, nearly nose-to-nose with him. Randy shifted only enough to lay a hand on her hip, hoping he wasn't overstepping.

"Meg, you're not dumb. Something happened to you. You have to understand that. You just don't remember what." _'If I get this out of the way now, we have three days to...whatever. So, let's go.'_

"And do _you _know?" Meg's eyes were suddenly unreadable, and Randy began to regret bringing up the topic.

"No. But...when you were in the accident, an EMT called me. He said you wrote my phone number on your leg." Meg offered up a half smile, and Randy continued. "You remember?" Meg shrugged, nodded, and put her hand over Randy's on her hip.

"I thought I was going to die. I wanted someone to come and claim the-"

"-Anyway," Randy continued, cutting Meg off, "He still calls me and checks up on you, makes sure you're doing okay. You make an impression on people, Meg, you know that?" He slid his hand out from under Meg's and up to her shoulder, rubbing small circles there with his thumb, knowing he about to upset her. "The last time he – Remy – called, he said some of the accident records were available."

Meg immediately perked up. "Then I want to -"

"No. You're not going to." _'Wait. When did she write my number down? Was she awake after the accident happened? It couldn't have been before the accident, unless...'_

"Randy, that isn't fair." Meg's eyes switched from interested to hurt.

"No, hold on a second. Let me finish. Please?" Meg pursed her lips, but nodded. "You – even though we both know you don't remember all of it – know more about what happened to you than I do. I'm starting from way behind you. Can I ask him for your records? Not so you _don't_ see them, but so I can?"

"I- I don't-" Meg's voice was starting to waver, and Randy knew it was time to move on. _'Enough for her, for right now. I still have things to kick around.'_

"Just think about it. I'm not going to do anything until...unless you say so. Except shower. I'm sick of the perfume. And the lipstick." He smiled and squeezed her shoulder, earning a watery laugh from Meg. The pain in Randy's back was starting to radiate down his legs, in part from the position he was laying in, in part from how wrecked his spine was. He made his way to the bathroom, thankful that the shower was a walk-in wall-jet model. He made it out just in time to see Meg, newly in a t-shirt and thin pajama pants, splitting out dinner between their two plates, a bottle of wine open and breathing on the table, and several others sitting beside it.

"Feeling any better? I thought about it, the shower was the thing I wanted to ask you about before dinner. I did remember." _'And I'm making myself let everything else go. I didn't see anything wrong on your arms, I didn't hear them, I feel normal for now. I'm not there yet, all the way, but you're here, and this is okay.'_

"Actually, yeah. I feel better. And I'm glad you remembered." Randy smiled and tried to step forward, but his back chose that moment to catch him in his lie, his legs starting to buckle as his hands snapped up to his back for what felt like the umpteenth time that day. Meg caught his weight as best she could and guided him toward the nearest chair at the table.

"Still not a good liar. Have dinner – you were always a sucker for Italian. I'll pour us some wine and work on your back after."

"Wine?" _'Didn't she do this with Joe? Joe talked way too much about what happened after. She remembered I like Italian? What is this about?'_

"My treat. You have _no_ idea what damage I did to Jackson's credit cards." Meg winked.

They ate and drank in a comfortable silence, the tension of their previous conversation seemingly forgotten, and Meg helped Randy over to the bed once they were done. Both were pleasantly heady from the wine, and Meg was far closer to Randy than she needed to be. _'Watch it, Meg. A bottle of wine and a back massage are a bad combination. Or a good combination.' _Meg leaned in towards him and breathed deeply. "Much better. Less 'Eau de Movie Star' and more 'Parfum de Orton'."

"Floral was never my thing." _'When did wine make me sloshed? She keeps touching me. This is nice.'_

"You're gonna be bummed, then. The only oil I have with me is my rose scented stuff. I can do your back without it, but it isn't going to feel as good."

"That's different, though. That's not floral, that's you. And I want it to feel good."_'For fuck's sake, Orton, shut up. Shut up now.'_

Meg gave a smile that approached devious and passed a small bit of the oil between her palms. "It's not like my hands are going to warm it before I start, so...sorry when this is freezing." True to form, Meg was like ice, and Randy's entire body startled when she first settled her fingers and then the flats of her hands against his back and began to work.

"Why didn't you use this last time? It's...really..." He trailed off, content.

Meg, far past relaxed and well into blissful, made a non-committal noise and topped off her wine glass. After a slight pause to drink, she moved from his right side on the bed to straddle his left leg. "Is this okay? I have a better angle." She pressed the heels of her hands deeply into Randy's back and leaned over him, sliding up the length of his spine and back down, stopping when she hit the cottony edge of his sleepwear. "Did you want me to grab a towel?" Meg started to lift off of him. "You're gonna have this _all _over your pants. Here, hang on, I'll-"

"Nah, Meg...stay." Randy didn't want her to move; he was reveling in the fact that she was in a wonderfully loose headspace where nothing seemed to be bothering her and the idea of touch was both appealing and enjoyable to her. _'Does she know how she feels? This is killing me. I shouldn't say – think that.'_

Meg drank deeply from her wine glass and settled back over his leg, adjusting her hips over him. "I'm too heavy, then? I'll move." Randy, now thoroughly confused, looked back over his shoulder at Meg. Her head was tilted at a Cheshire-Cat angle, the smirk on her face daring him to challenge her. _'Meg, you are thoroughly potted. Do one of three things: Drink more and get him to drink more with you so this is equally amusing for you both, or make this the massage it should have been the first time, or just go the fuck to sleep.'_

"Meg, I can't reach my wine glass from here. And you're not going anywhere." Randy slipped one arm out from under his head, and Meg watched as he reached back and closed his fingers around a handful of the fabric of her pajama pants. "There. What'd you used to call that? A wardrobe malfunction?" He chuckled. "Now you're stuck."

"Oh, I have _so_ many possible solutions for that..." Meg shimmied over him, feeling the waistband of her pants slip slightly, and laughed. Randy felt a wash of relief come over him when the sound came easily to Meg, didn't seem like something she had to dig from the bottoms of her bones. A wash of something else, too, deeper within himself as she moved, but he forced it down.

Leaning up, Meg began the process of rolling the heels of her hands up and down his back all over again. Randy could feel her hair occasionally drag across his back when she leaned far enough over him; her breath was warm and sweet against his skin as she worked. "Any better? A lot of your problem is stress. The longer you lay here, I can feel things move that I'm not even really working on."

_'I bet, Meg...'_ "Well...like what, that you're not working on?"

Meg, taking advantage of his shift in attention, shoved herself backwards off his leg, nearly sliding off the foot of the bed. "Gotcha! And my pants didn't even have to come off." Meg winked, and Randy couldn't suppress the groan that welled out of him. "I'm going to open a second bottle. You sit up, and I'll show you what I mean. Your lower back is fine, but I chased the mess up to your shoulders. That's the 'moving' I'm talking about." Meg rambled as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and swayed to the table, laughing softly as she first tried to coordinate her feet for walking, then her hands for a corkscrew, waistband still slipping. _'And they're still not talking to you, Meg. He brought up the accident, you're touching him, his arms are right there, and everything's-'_

She was jarred from her thoughts as Randy walked up behind her, wrapping his arms around her and closing his hands over hers in a show of support for her efforts with the corkscrew. "Need any help? You looked like you were getting beat by a wine bottle." _'You're lucky, Orton. A lesser man couldn't will that away. Not that you wanted to. Are you hearing yourself? Go drink more.' _He leaned down over her shoulder, trying to see what she had selected. "Then again...I don't know shit about wine, other than the first one you picked was great."

_'Meg, don't do this, don't do this, stop, you're really making a big-' _Meg leaned against him, tilting her head up and back, not realizing how close his face was to hers, grazing his cheek as she moved, her voice gentle in his ear. "Pinot noir first, zinfandel second. There's a pinot grigiot in there somewhere, and I'm saving the dessert bottle for last." Her voice was light, and Randy felt himself feather apart listening to her, feeling what he swore were her eyelashes against his cheek.

Working her hands under his, she managed to get the cork out of the bottle, then spun in his arms to face him, wine in hand. "We both still have a glass each to finish. This can breathe for a while. C'mere, sit down, drink – you need to catch up to me – and I'll work out your shoulders til you lay back down." She pushed back against him, trying to nudge him toward the bed.

"Then what?"

"Then I finish you off." Meg blinked, hard, and then ducked her head down in a fit of giggles. "Oh my God, Meg," she squeaked at herself, "That sounded _so _wrong." She had to gasp to catch her breath, and when she looked up, her cheeks were pink and Randy was working hard to suppress a wicked grin, though it wasn't directed at her face. "What I mean is, then I -" She followed his gaze down, to her hips, where the lilac edge of her panties had begun to peek over the top of her pajama pants following her twist against his body. "Oh, please. They're nothing to write home about." Meg started a one-handed adjustment on her waistband, but Randy's hands gently lifted her fingers away.

"They're...pretty. Leave it. Get your wine glass." Randy's voice was low, almost sweet, the way honey would sound if it could have a choice in the matter. Meg, somewhere between intrigued and confused, simply reached behind her for what was left of her pinot noir and followed him to the bed.

"Shoulders. I was finishing your shoulders. Sitting, so you can finish your wine. So, sit."

Randy eased onto the foot of the bed, giving her ample space to kneel behind him, watching her movements in the mirror over the dresser across from the bed.

"Enjoying the show?" Meg nudged Randy, and slowly finished her glass of wine before setting it to the side and moving to touch him. When she did, she leaned deeply into his shoulders, teasing at various knots and trigger points, using the mirror to gauge his reactions. Randy finished his wine with equal degrees thoughtfulness and agacerie, and considered what would – or could – happen after a second bottle.

_'It's already open. And she said something about dessert. Oh, what the fuck. It's innocent.' _"Can I pour the next one, or is there a right and wrong way to do this?"

"Right? In the glass. Wrong? When you spill it," Meg teased. Randy feigned hurt feelings, falling dramatically backward onto the bed and flipping Meg over with him. He dared roll her on top of him, wrapping his arms around her and settling his hands over her lower back.

"Do you know how much I missed just having you around?" The sincerity in his voice was startling even to him.

"Not nearly as much as I did, Ran. Trust me. It's nice to just feel...safe. To feel anything." Meg's smile was small as she propped herself up on his chest, and Randy hated the look that loomed behind her eyes like fog. "And I'm glad tonight is a freebie. We still have three days for anything we want."

"And what is it you want?" Meg ducked her head; Randy had to bring a hand up under her chin to get her to make eye contact with him again. "Really, Meg. Anything. Or nothing at all, both are good."

"Right now? More wine. To finish your back. Probably a few things I shouldn't want."

_'Oh, really. You too? Me, too.' _"And if I asked?"

Meg smiled, slid off of Randy, and refilled their glasses. "Then I'd finish my wine, work on your shoulders, and ignore the question."

Randy rolled his eyes and half-growled at Meg, his feint at annoyance more amusing than anything else. She returned with two glasses of zinfandel, passing one to him while she sipped at hers. "Whatcha think?"

"I'm supposed to think? You didn't tell me dinner involved a quiz."

"I _mean_," Meg's tone teasingly exasperated, "Do you like it, or is it not your thing?"

"There's something...raspberry? In it. I think. Is that normal, or is that one too many shots to the head?"

Meg checked the bottle, giving Randy another look at the edge of her panties. Her waistband had tilted further askew over her hip, and he could now see that the side-panels were some sort of lace, while the front and back were made of something that looked soft. _'It's not satin – it doesn't have that stripper, fakey shiny look. But it looks soft. Cotton? Lace and cotton?' _

"Well, fuck me."

Randy's mind slammed the brakes on, went reeling, couldn't process what she had said as a request, statement, or question. He shook his head, looked into his wine glass, and then back up at Meg.

"You were right. Notes of raspberry." She paused, bemused. "What's the look for? You're that surprised you guessed right?"

Randy gave a dry chuckle, and began to backpedal up the bed toward the pillows. "Yeah...I'm...something like that. Grab the wine and the corkscrew, and come up here?"

Meg showed no hesitation. "Thought you'd never ask." She circled the bed and got in next to him, unabashedly pushing his arm over her shoulders. _'God, Meg, you're drunk. You're not used to wine. You're not used to him.' _Randy, for his part, pulled her in closer and leaned down over her head, murmuring into her hair.

_'I should have done this first. They shouldn't have been first.'_

"Hmm?"

"Nothing, Meggie. Nothing. Pour again? And tell me about your drive." _'So that I don't have to tell you what I said. Please, don't. Because if you ask again, I might.'_

Meg leaned into him, telling him about the scenery, some of the more interesting characters she had met at gas stations and truck stops, her trading the security of a hotel for sleeping in parking lots – and it was there Randy bristled. Meg felt the tension come back into his arms, and she squeezed herself against him to be reassuring.

"Well, I made it, didn't I?"

"Nine lives. Maybe you _are_ half-cat, Meg."

Meg paused, befuddled, then tittered, giggled, laughed outright, taking Randy along for the ride on wave after wave of outright amusement. "I can't believe you remember that! You were so mad I was messing up your pullover when I was yanking on it."

"It was a zip-up, but same difference." He stretched out on the bed, languid, at peace with the world, and more importantly, with himself.

"You are _such_ a girl. You really had to point out the difference?" Meg snorted. "And congrats to us, we just killed off bottle number two. Keep going?"

_'I'm not sure I want this to stop, Meg.' _"Promise I won't end up with a hangover?" Meg nodded. "Then let's keep going. See what happens."

Eventually, wine spent and sleep crawling over them like ripples of smoke, Randy and Meg settled into their bed, neither bothering to comment on the fact they were sharing sheets. _'It feels fine. It feels better than fine. I'm safe and he's here.' _Without a single word of discussion, Meg nestled into Randy's shoulder while he folded himself around her, an arm draped protectively over her middle. However, his position was brief.

"Wait, Meg," Randy got out of bed and tucked the quilt tightly around her, moving to the other side of the bed. "I want the door side. Just because. Plus...you can see over the balcony, this way." Meg shifted, readjusted, buried herself against him, and sighed with such drunken contentedness Randy felt it overtake him. _'Tonight was basically perfect. She ate, she's relaxed, we both probably drank too much, and all she needs now is sleep. Tomorrow, breakfast and then whatever.'_

He stayed awake for hours, watching her sleep, enjoying the light, floating feeling the wine had bathed him in. It wasn't until Meg started to twitch, then dig her nails into his arms, that he tightened his grip on her protectively. She opened her eyes, somewhat tipsy, vaguely aware of where she was, fingertips probing to see who, exactly, was holding her. Meg forced herself to stifle a screech when the skulls on Randy's arms began baring their teeth at her in the thin starlight filtering in from the windows. With shaky hands, she pushed herself over in his arms, leaving the images behind her and pressing her face into his chest.

He pushed her back only enough to try for a look at her eyes, to make sure she hadn't gone vacant on him, and the cool air that cut in between their bodies tore a shiver out of them both. Meg looked up at him, then back down to her hands. She could see Jackson's blood coating them, in part from stabbing him with the pen, in part from when his chest had dripped down onto her after the car had stopped tumbling and come to rest in the median. Slowly, she brought her palms up between her face and Randy's, her entire body starting to vibrate with the effort of what she was about to ask.

_'Meg, you swore you wouldn't do this. They weren't saying anything. What are you doing? Are you even sure this...no, Meg. You're not. Just ask. You have to ask.'_

Meg's voice was terrified and shaky when she finally spoke. "Ran...is there _anything_ on my hands?"

Gently, slowly, he tilted them back and forth in front of him. "Meggie...no. Nothing's there. Honest."

She sighed, quietly relieved, and wrapped her arms over the back of his neck, again hiding her face in his chest, pulling her legs up against him. He could feel her lips brushing his skin as she whispered to Jackson, to herself, to Joe, and he stopped trying to make sense of it. _'She's working it out. And we've got all day. Three days. No need to push.'_

* * *

><p>(Veneration – Day 1)<p>

Meg stretched languidly, reaching out in front of her but finding only cool sheets where she expected to find Randy. Unfazed, she rolled onto her back, enjoying the sunlight in the room, the wide, soft expanse of the mattress, and the downy silence in the room. _'He'll be back. I should shower.' _Yawning, allowing herself one last stretch, Meg righted herself in the bed and tested her legs against the ground before ambling off toward the bathroom. _'Don't get flaky, Meg. In and out.'_

Randy returned midway through her shower, bagels and coffee in hand. _'I wonder if she'll remember that day with the coffee. Maybe.'_ Hearing the water running when he walked in, he considered the merits and drawbacks of knocking on the bathroom door, not wanting to rush her, but not wanting her breakfast to get cold, either. Shrugging and knocking, he called through the door that he was back. Meg was unnervingly silent; the longer he stood at the door listening, the more he was convinced he didn't hear her moving through the water – nothing splashed, nothing dripped out of sequence – it all just sounded as though it was running. _'We're about to start a no-closed-doors policy. This shit is out of hand.' _Taking a deep breath, he tested the doorknob, which was unlocked. Cautiously opening the door, Randy closed his eyes and leaned into the bathroom. The room was thick with steam, and smelled of both roses and his soap.

"Meg? Meggie, I'm back. Breakfast." He knew he was loud enough to be heard over the water, even if he wasn't calling directly into the room.

She was still quiet. Randy turned his head just enough to half-peer into the bathroom, scanning across the tiles, finally parsing Meg's figure out of the steamy fog, deep in the corner of the shower, her back to the door. She was resting her forehead against one arm, the other up over her head along the wall, fingers tracing the tiles, water cascading down her back, the edge of the scar on her ribs just barely visible. The rise in the outer walls and position of the entrance to the walk-in blocked Randy's view of anything beyond her lower back, but just seeing her standing there both assured him she was fine and pulled the floor away from him. He didn't realize he was still watching Meg until she turned her head slightly and began to look at him.

"You okay, Ran?" Her voice was barely audible over the water; she hadn't moved from the corner at all and he wasn't sure he'd heard her or simply heard what he wanted to. He offered up an embarrassed smile and half-waved at her before ducking out of the room. A few minutes later, dressed but still toweling her hair dry, Meg stepped out, a thoroughly amused look on her face.

"You never answered my question," she teased, bumping him with her hip, "And you have cream cheese..here, c'mere." Meg thumbed the corner of his mouth clean, licked her thumb, and dug her bagel out of the paper bag on the table before settling next to him on the bed, her skin surprisingly warm against his. "Ooh. Cinnamon raisin." Randy nudged her coffee at her, and Meg's facial expression became positively blissful as she took her first sip. "And mocha...caramel..." He could see a vague thought cross her mind, and then be dismissed just as quickly as it had slipped in. She smiled, though, and he was happy with that. And the way she licked her thumb.

"Plans for the day?"

"No, I asked if you were okay. But yeah, plans are good too."

"Nope. You?"

"I was thinking I'd ask for a laptop from the resort. They've probably got business loaners. Then, look for some apartments, call Dave and get _that_ shit sorted out, re-file for the license for my LPN, get the paperwork for a state ID started, and see if I can't write a resume. I'm sure you've got things to do, anyway." Meg punctuated her sentence with a firm bite of bagel, chewing thoughtfully before sipping her coffee and placing it on the floor near the bed.

Randy, for his part, looked stunned. "Wow...uh...yeah, I can go back down to the desk and see if they can...I mean...I didn't know you wanted to stay up here...a laptop...sure, if you want..."

Meg's face was a mask of seriousness far longer than she expected to be able to hold it before she broke into hysterical laughter. "Oh my God! That was the best! Like I'm really gonna stay up here? Ran, you're only here another week, week and a half, tops. I'm not staying here _alone_. I don't know where I'm _going_, but I'm not _staying_ here. Jesus, really?" She fell back onto the bed, gasping for air between spasms of giggles. Randy, amused and glad to see some of Meg's personality showing, grabbed a pillow and smacked her with it gently. It was enough to prompt a similar assault from Meg, even though she knew she'd lose miserably. After a few solid swipes, she held her hands up for mercy; her ribs and arms couldn't hold up against him.

"You win! Seriously, you win! I'm done. But, really...what do you want to do? I'm game for anything – just remember, you probably don't want to be seen taking vacation days with me."

"Fuck the media, Meg."

"You can fuck whoever you want. Finish your bagel and go shower, that rose stuff dries sticky."

* * *

><p>In the shower, Randy stood in the same corner Meg stood in, tracing his fingers over the tiles, feeling the rose oil roll off of his skin under the hot water. His mind wandered; her skin had been pale and glossy under the water, and the steam obscured the small scars on her back between her shoulderblades. Randy's mind drifted back to the night Meg had struggled to his hotel room after Jackson threw her into the mirror; there was nothing he could do to Jackson now. Joe was another story. <em>'Why did I leave her with Joe? I could have told him to go get Dave.' <em>His fingernails dug into the grout between the tiles, and the grit was satisfying.

The night after Meg had first slept with Joe, he had crowed about it to anyone who would listen. He went from reserved and demure about their relationship to something akin to a live-audio Penthouse Letter essentially overnight – but was careful to be properly respectful around Meg and Dave. The men and women of the roster largely ignored Joe – everyone liked Meg too much to pay much attention to what he had to say – but the more Randy heard, the angrier he became, and when he finally called him out on it, Joe's response left a lot to be desired: _'You don't know her like you think you do. I know you're not fucking her, so you wouldn't know anything about this.'_

Randy forced Joe from his mind, and found the space filled suddenly by another image of Meg in the shower, water coursing down toward the trench of her back, dragging her dark red hair down around her shoulders in swirling edges and tendrils, then to her licking her thumb during breakfast. His thoughts shifted from what he would do to Joe in December to what he might do with the sylph currently in the bedroom, and the possibilities seemed suddenly endless. _'If anyone knew...oh well. I don't even think I know.'_ Turning off the water, he bothered only with boxers before stepping into the bedroom, finding a note in place of Meg on the bed.

"Out by the bay. Back soon. -M"

Leaning out over the balcony, Randy could see Meg out in the distance – further away than he expected her to be for the short shower he'd taken – wrapped in his hoodie, holding her coffee, occasionally looking back over he shoulder at the resort as though she was checking for something. He stayed there, watching her, until she turned behind a distant cluster of reeds. Still aware that Joe was nagging at the back of his mind, he decided to do something productive about the whole tangled mess, and grabbed his phone.

"'Allo? C'est Remy."

"Remy, hey. It's Randy. Listen, about those reports..."

* * *

><p>When Meg returned, nearly two hours later, she mentally cursed at herself for letting so much time slip away, even though it was with the next night in mind. Randy was asleep on the bed, SportsCenter in an endless loop on the TV. She shut the door quietly and leaned against the dresser across from the bed, slowly taking him in. Feet that would never not show wear and tear from the ring, one ankle that tilted dangerously inward when he was relaxed – a sure sign he was fully asleep, and not simply holding still for his ego's benefit from her appraisal – each striation on the muscles in his legs visible as her eyes slid upward to the hem-edge of his boxers. One arm was behind his head, propping him further forward on his pillow; the other rested across his stomach, casting shadows that made the depth between each muscle in his abdomen seem all the more pronounced. And of course, the tattoos. It was there that Meg shivered, and not just from the chill that had crept in with her from the beach.<p>

Her goal was to scout possible locations for a campfire; while getting their luggage the night before, Meg had noticed a sign at the front desk informing guests that small fires were permitted at intervals on the beach. Knowing that neither of them had any interest in being spotted, photographed, or otherwise bothered, she'd tried to go as far afield as she could without actually leaving the property. Finding a secluded spot behind a bed of reeds, Meg sat to rest her leg – walking in the thick sand had exhausted the little goodwill her bones had left to offer her – and to admire the view.

The view led to her being lost in her thoughts, in particular those related to last night. Meg had come dangerously close to crossing several lines, but rather than be irritated with herself, she found herself considering the possibilities. Each trail she allowed her mind to wander down, each rabbit hole she teased through, ended the same way – seeing, then hearing, those laughing skulls in front of her, telling her what she already knew: There was no way, Meg. You killed someone you said you loved, after you walked away from someone you said you loved. What will you do to Randy if you love him any more than you already do?

Without the tattoos in front of her on the beach, the voices and images were more of an annoyance and frustration than a complete terror, but here in the room, they were louder, closer, more aggressive – nearly touching her as they floated past, pens swirling behind them. _'Meg, why did you look? Looking at him was one thing, but looking at him there, like that...you knew what would happen.' _She started to slide away, head down, trying to carefully return to the door and leave, but she misjudged the distance to the edge of the dresser as she moved and half-fell back over the edge of it, banging into the wall. Randy stirred, then fixed a bleary look on her and offered up a half-smile.

"Hey, you're back. C'mere." He sat up, reaching for her, not noticing or understanding the look on her face. Meg recoiled as far as she could with the wall behind her, and started to panic – Randy had started to lean forward, expecting her to come to him, looking groggy and confused that she hadn't simply slipped her shoes off and climbed up next to him. "Meggie? You okay? Something happen?"

Meg had stopped moving, stopped looking, felt as though she'd stopped breathing. _'Meg, stop it. Just stop it. It's not real.' _She forced her head up to look at him, and made her eyes look anywhere but at his arms.

"Sorry, Ran. Sorry. I blanked out. Here, I'm coming." She slipped off her – his – hoodie, kicked her shoes over to the door, and crept toward the bed.

"Kiddo, what happens when you do that?" Randy lifted up the quilt and swept Meg under it; he could feel the chill from the outside air radiating off of her body. Slowly, still half-asleep, he rolled over toward her, draping his arm over her shoulders and pulling her toward him. Meg forced herself to keep her eyes closed, to ignore his tattoos and their close proximity to her face. Secretly, she could hear their teeth chattering.

"I...Ran, it's hard to explain." Meg leaned her head back into his chest, enjoying the feeling of him behind her. Reflexively, he draped one of his legs over hers and urged her even further back against him.

"Try, Meggie. I need to understand." He brushed his fingers through her wind-blown hair, gently unsnarling the ends and trying to be subtly encouraging. The scent of sea-salt and roses was intoxicating, and she hadn't had a cigarette for days. "Please? Meg...I want to help."

"Then...just treat me like I was, Randy. Not like I am." _'That's the only thing I haven't tried.'_

Randy was silent, holding her, breathing her scent in, and thinking. "Okay. Then, nap now. Later, we're going swimming. Remember that time at...where were we...in Dallas, the American Airlines Center? That sounds right. Remember when we all were there for a pay show, and you and Dave ended up at our hotel afterward because everyone got drunk poolside and between the heat and the stress, they all were passing out left and right? You and Dave hauled, like, two dozen people back up to their rooms..." Randy went on and on, meandering through tiny details, the minutiae of the night, every small thing she and Dave had done, until he was sure Meg had fallen asleep next to him.

Carefully sliding himself away from her, Randy called the front desk and arranged for the pool to be closed and cleared far after-hours. _'I'm not exactly an A-lister, but I don't feel like dealing with people, and Meg...yeah. No.'_ His quiet phone call complete, lunch a distant consideration and dinner a more practical one, he arranged for room service to deliver dinner a few hours later, and returned to bed. Meg stirred slightly when he sank in next to her, but didn't wake. Instead, she unconsciously reached for him, and he was only too happy to wrap her in his arms. _'I don't have to be fake with you. I can be a jackass, and that's okay, but I can be...soft? Soft. And that's not a joke to you. I don't have to stay one thing. I can make mistakes. I can breathe.'_

* * *

><p>Burgers and beer delivered, Meg practically drooling with delight, they ate in bed and bickered good-naturedly over football and basketball results. Randy was almost sad to bring up going to the pool, but, he reasoned, if Meg wanted to be treated like normal, then it was back to all their old games. He was prepared for her to balk; when he brought the idea up earlier, her thoughts were elsewhere and she hadn't protested. Now, fully awake, Meg looked as though he'd gone out of his mind.<p>

"Randy...I don't have anything to swim _in_, and even if I did...no. I'm not...I look...just no."

"I didn't say you had to swim, I said we're going to the pool. I can swim, you can watch. And if I drown, you're a pro at CPR."

"If you drown, we're past the point of needing CPR." Meg sighed, then smiled and shrugged. "Let me get my phone and the instructions; maybe I can figure some of this out."

"What, not going to stare at me?" Randy grinned and flexed dramatically. "I've been told I'm attractive..."

"If your ego gets any bigger, you won't actually fit in the pool. Just saying."

* * *

><p>A short elevator ride later, Meg's arms full of magazines from the small hotel concession area, she and Randy jostled and teased their way onto the indoor pool deck, with Randy shutting and locking the door behind them.<p>

"What's that about?" Meg scooted two deck chairs together and piled her various amusements onto one; the other she covered with a towel and stretched out on.

"Locking it? I asked them to clear it. I don't want anyone bothering us. And how the fuck are you wearing sweats in here? It's got to be ninety. I'd be dying."

"Because I'm anemic. This is comfortable, and besides, I'm not getting in. And Randy?" She waited to be sure he was looking at her before continuing. "Thank you. It's really too much, and you already...you didn't have to go to all the trouble of-"

"Shut up before I cannonball you." Randy smiled, sauntered to the deep end of the pool, and slipped over the edge under the water, coming back up halfway across the pool.

Meg huffed good-naturedly, and settled into her deck chair, watching Randy swim laps. She feigned interest in the directions in her cell phone booklet, but her eyes spent more time raised over its edge, watching the occupant of the pool. When he was close to her, she could see the droplets of water that coursed along his chest. At a greater distance, Meg was able to watch the flex and bow of the muscles in his shoulders, shiver when the sinews of his thighs came into view as he flipped under for another lap in her direction. _'Stop it, Meg. You can't think like that. You know he knows. He asked about the records, so if he doesn't know, he's going to find out. Once he knows, it's done, so don't bother getting started. And he's not up for anyone's sloppy seconds.'_

Randy, meanwhile, was swimming and plotting; each lap not facing Meg was accompanied by a terrific grin. After nearly an hour in the pool, he managed to coax Meg over to the edge of the water to dip her feet in. She refused to cuff her pants, which he expected – _'She's worried about what her leg looks like.' - _but it didn't matter, for what he was planning. She swirled her toes in the water and talked to him while idly paging through a magazine. Randy hovered near the edge of the pool, slightly over an arms' length away, then suddenly clutched at his side and gasped. Meg was on her feet in an instant.

"Ran, focus. Try to come closer, aim for my hands. What happened?" She was leaning out over the surface of the water, trying to get his attention and keep him talking.

"I...Meg...it hurts...help..." He gasped again, loudly, and allowed himself to sink a bit. _'This is so wrong, but it's so worth it...if she doesn't drown me herself.'_

"Randy...come on, reach for my hands. You're almost there." Meg was scanning the pool deck, looking for anything that resembled a safety device, but there was nothing. _'Wonderful. Remind me to write a love letter to corporate.' _She edged out further, trying not to lose her balance even though her shin was howling at her to stop using it as leverage.

_'Now or never,' _Randy thought, and he made a lunge for Meg's hands. His smile gave him away, and though Meg tried to snatch her arms back, she was so woefully off-balance that she couldn't correct her position, and it took barely any touch at all from Randy before she went hurtling into the pool, fully clothed. He held down her by the shoulders, swung her under the water out to the middle of the pool, and then popped her up several feet away from him, paddling as fast as he could to get out of her reach.

Meg came up, gasping, swinging, trying to get her bearings, get her hair out of her face, find Randy, try to organize whether or not she saw a smile or something else on his face before she fell in – _'And did I fall? Did he pull me? Is he okay?'_ And then she saw him, a good ten feet away, trying to block a giant smile behind his hand, and Meg knew she'd been had. She broke into a windmilling fit, splashing him as much as she could with her less-than-cooperative arm, and was near breathless from laughing. Edging closer to him, she hurled water in his direction, she attempted a pounce and half connected, knocking him lower but not quite under.

"What have I told you about scaring me like that?" Meg grabbed him by the back of the head and unceremoniously dunked him, allowing him to pop up almost immediately rather than risk the consequences. "And I'm soaked, and...you!" She splashed him again, smiling the entire time.

"Then I guess we stay til you dry out." Randy scooped her up and gently placed her back on the edge of the pool, backing away slowly. "You're not mad?"

Meg paused for a second, letting a slow frown settle on her face, her head slowly sinking. Randy, suddenly concerned, came closer to her. "Listen, Meg, I was just playing around, I didn't mean to-"

She vaulted herself off the deck and landed her knees onto his shoulders, effectively sinking him by surprise, soaking herself in the process as she went under with him, but enjoying the fact that their score was now tied. She swam across the pool to the opposite deck and hoisted herself out, her clothing heavy with water. "Back to normal, right?"

Randy, still coughing up water while laughing, managed to hack out a gleeful, "Yes, we are," in response.

They slept soundly that night, Meg blissfully free from nightmares.

* * *

><p>(We Knew Not Whether We Were In Heaven Or On Earth)<p>

The apex of their time together, Meg wanted their second night to go off perfectly, and as a complete surprise to Randy. She left him to his own devices in the late morning, stealing down to his SUV and – having finally solved the mystery of GPS on her phone – navigated to a nearby grocery store. Miscalculating the lunch rush, it took her longer to get back to the resort than she expected, which left her and Randy both on edge. He began to worry something had happened to Meg, Meg began to be irritated by traffic and the sheer nonsense of it all.

Luckily, tequila was a wonderful solvent for problems such as theirs, and after a few shots each, they both wondered what all of their fussing was about.

"Eventually," Meg feigned irritation, "You're going to trust me again."

"C'mon, Meg. I always trusted you. It doesn't mean that I never worried about you. It's not the same thing."

"Trust me to put together a surprise for you?"

"Depends. What does it involve?" Randy tossed back another shot and passed the bottle to Meg.

"It hinges on you being sober enough to walk and not burst into flames. That's all I'll say."

"Sounds dangerous. I'm in."

"Save the enthusiasm for after dinner, MacGyver."

The cold weather catching up to Meg, she managed to cobble together an outfit that would carry her through their nighttime beach excursion, and only told Randy that he should choose something warm and meet her in the lobby with a blanket. While he sifted through sweatpants and track pants, Meg slipped down to the SUV and double-checked the contents of her two paper bags – one, with two bottles of wine and ingredients for S'mores, the other a smaller paper bag with matches, a yellow bottle of lighter fluid, and wrapped bundle of kindling from the hardware store that was kitty-corner to the grocery store. _'That didn't help me getting back on time, but oh well. Not taking any chances on this not working.' _She lifted the bags and trotted back to the lobby, hoping she hadn't left Randy waiting long.

Her timing was perfect; he was stepping out of the elevator just as she was stepping through the doors, but she saw a look of annoyance cross his face. It wasn't directed at her, so she began to scan the lobby. A small crowd had gathered near the front desk and swiftly moved toward him, pens, paper, glossies, and magazines all in hand. More than a few women were in the crowd, and Meg sighed and shook her head, turning to go back to the parking garage and wait. _'Randy saw me; he can figure it out. Maybe we can drive back around to the Marina and do this over there. It'd take balls for people to actually follow us.'_

"Meg, hold up!" Randy's voice cut across the lobby, startling her into freezing where she stood. Randy was polite enough to sign a few of the papers being waved at him, but nudged his way past the crowd and over to Meg, making a show of wrapping his arm around her shoulders. Meg could hear a few of the women in the crowd mutter things like, "bitch," but tried to pay it no mind. Randy calmly pulled her closer and ushered her out the doors into the cool night air.

"I sure as shit hope you wanted to go this way."

Meg was uneasily quiet as they walked, and it seemed she wasn't guiding Randy so much as just moving loosely forward with him. _'I'm losing her,' _Randy thought, dryly, _'And this was her surprise, and that mess in the lobby ruined it.' _He cut in front of her and brought her to a gentle stop, taking the bags from her hand.

"Meggie? Hey. Look at me. Eventually you get used to that shit. Don't worry about it. I walked out with you, right?" He tried to catch her eyes, eventually crouching in front of her to try to pull her from her reverie. "Right? So now I need you to tell me where we're going, before we walk into the bay."

"He never took me out anywhere. And it's not like that was a huge-assed crowd. This...I shouldn't think like that. It doesn't matter." Meg waved her hand in front of her face as though she were clearing extraneous thoughts from the air. "Anyway. Here. Here we go. Back past those reeds. I just wanted something fun to do." She lifted the bags and kept walking.

It was Randy's turn to be sullen. _'I felt like I was taking you out. I guess. Maybe I'm reading too much into it? It's just friendly fucking around? Right. You said treat you like you were before, and before...we were friends. So we're friends now. Orton, you're so dumb. Meg's not like that with you. It's not like she's over him.'_

"Hey? Ran? What's wrong?" Meg slipped her hand into his and gave it a small squeeze. "I'm sorry I brought up Joe. What I meant was, you'd think I wouldn't be bothered by crowds, if he ever took me out. I was just going to wait in the SUV, and see if you wanted to drive around to the Marina. But...like you said. Fuck him. The more I think about that..." Meg paused, then squeezed Randy's hand again. "I don't...it still hurts, but I don't need him. If he can do that to me, then he can do worse to me, too. He's past."

The smile that crept across Randy's face was broadly gleeful, and he lifted his arm up over Meg's shoulders, pulling her in close to him. "I'm glad, Meg. Whatever's next...is. But I'm glad he's past." Randy tilted to look down at the top of her head, then cleared his throat, prompting Meg to look up at him. "But, uh, promise me something?"

"What's that?"

"Can he stay past?"

Meg could hear the skulls in her head, teeth chattering, whispering loudly all at once. _'Don't get any ideas, whore. He's not asking because he wants you. He's asking because he's tired of cleaning up after you.' _She shivered, but tucked in further under his arm. "Yeah. Yeah, Randy. He's going to stay past."

They disappeared behind the cluster of reeds Meg had nosed around the day before; Randy was amused and surprised to find she had set up the wood for their bonfire when she had been out earlier. A small bit of kindling and lighter fluid later, and Meg threw a match into what became a lovely, warm fire. She helped Randy spread out their blanket, and then dumped the second bag out, delighted at the look that danced across his face when he surveyed the items Meg had purchased earlier.

"S'mores! And wine!" He lifted her into a hug, careful of her ribs, but still as excited as a child at summer camp. "Is it the same wine we had before? That shit was _good_. And you remembered-"

"- I remembered you said they were better with peanut butter, so I bought Reeses instead of plain chocolate. I might not remember how to work a phone, but...some things stuck upstairs." Meg tapped at her temple.

"Have I told you how much I missed you?"

"Twice, now." Meg smiled and handed him a stick. "Go nuke a marshmallow. I want to see you do this without setting shit on fire."

"That comes later. I brought the rest of the tequila."

Fueled by sugar and alcohol, they eventually ended up wandering far afield from their blanket and chasing each other around the surf, Randy eventually slinging a handful of seaweed into Meg's hair that brought her to a shrieking halt, forcing her up to the blanket to pick it out while he caught his breath by the water's edge. With his back to her, he didn't see the cadre of people, mostly female, who had marched up to their blanket, taking Meg by surprise. The brunette in the lead spoke first, her friends only too glad to duck behind her.

"So, are you, like, _with_ him? Or are you an assistant or something? Because we want his room number and if you could help us out with that, it would be _really_ nice."

Meg, made more of alcohol than common sense at that moment, felt fire in her throat and a strange, hot, humming between her thighs. "He's here on vacation. With me. And it's my room. So, no. Not happening."

"Bitch. I'll just go ask him. What do you have that I don't?"

"You're going to have third-degree burns when I plant you face-first in my campfire. So get the fuck on, trick." Without thinking, her fingers traveled to the lighter fluid and traced the edges of the bottle, but she stopped shy of picking it up.

Randy, now fully aware of the group, was speeding toward the blanket, unsure of how Meg was handling herself. Had he seen the entirely terrified look on the faces of the women, he would have worried less. He arrived just in time to see Meg stand, smooth and fluid, as though nothing were wrong with her now – or ever had been.

"Everything okay here?" Randy's voice was edgy, tipsy; he was just as pickled as Meg.

"Yeah, Ran," Meg looked over her shoulder at him, "Barbie and I were just having a conversation about how it's a bad idea to talk to strangers." She fired a withering smirk at the group, most of which had dispersed, leaving the brunette and only two of her close friends as support.

Shrilly, the brunette fired one last attempt into the night air while backing away from the scene. "Your girlfriend is a fucking psycho! Jesus Christ! If you want a real night out, we're on the third floor. If you want her to cut your dick off, you're on your own. Deuces."

"Don't wait up for me. I'm in the middle of a real night out. Goodnight, ladies." With that, Randy pulled Meg back against him, pasting an equally malevolent smile across his face.

Waiting until the women had backed away fully, Randy slowly spun Meg around and looked at her, eyes wide. "That...was fucking amazing."

"Shit, I'm just flattered she thought we were dating."

Randy pulled a long drink from the bottle of tequila, in part to keep his mouth from running away with him, and then passed the bottle to Meg. _'No, that's a compliment to me.'_ "I mean," he continued, wiping his mouth, "You were...incredible. You went hardcore on her. Meg is back!"

"I think I said I was going to set her on fire. Probably not my finest moment."

"Nah, Meg-"

"Let me guess: Fuck her?"

Randy roared with amusement and pulled her down onto the blanket with him, causing Meg to break into hysteria herself.

"No, actually, _don't_ fuck her. _Anything_ but that. Then I have to track her down, apologize, and give her our room number!" Meg was on the verge of tears from her laughter; she could barely catch her breath, and Randy's sudden closeness did nothing to still the foreign, pleasant feeling still vibrating through her core. _'Oh, Lord. Please tell me this wasn't here the whole time. Please tell me I didn't ignore this the whole, entire time.'_

* * *

><p>The fire burned itself down to embers, and after killing off both the tequila and the wine, Meg and Randy staggered back to the resort's doors, shaking sand and in Meg's case, seaweed, from themselves the entire way.<p>

"Decent surprise?"

"Meg, you can surprise me like that whenever you want."

"Just remember: you gave me permission to use sneak tactics."

Collapsing on their bed, it occurred to Meg how cold her hands and feet were from being outside. She considered the consequences, then pounced full-bore onto him, grabbing his waist firmly under his shirt and wrapping her legs around his. He startled, then began a gentle struggle of trying to unlatch her from him, but for every limb he got undone, she managed to find new skin to torment. Deciding might would make right, or at least peace, he flipped her underneath him, limiting her range of motion.

"Listen here, ice princess..."

"And what're you gonna do about it?" The look on Meg's face was pure dare. _'Please? Do something about it?'_

Randy's face went from playful to serious, a thousand options running free-range behind his eyes. "Meg...be careful what you ask for..."

She smiled gently, and stroked the back of her hand across his cheek, down the line of his jaw, tracing her thumb over his lips, riding a warm wave of affection and inebriation. "I know, Ran. I know. Go to sleep, before I get us both in trouble."

"Stay?" His voice caught somewhere between asking and telling as he rolled off of her.

"For you? Anything." Meg sat on the edge of the bed and slid her jeans off, then her shirt, finally deciding she didn't care what he saw. _'You're going to see it all, and worse. You want those files, and whether I say yes or no...when I say yes...you're going to know everything. I want to enjoy this, whatever it is, while I have it. I know what I am – and pretty soon, you'll know it, too.' _The skulls smiled, nodded, and were silent. Meg was grateful for the respite from their acid commentary, deciding that simply agreeing with them might be the path of least resistance.

Randy, leaning on one elbow, shocked into stillness, looked at Meg's back with equal amounts awe and lust. Her skin had finally, through decent sleep and regular meals, lost its pallor and was back to its alabaster glow. The thin, glossy scars left from the night Jackson had put her into the hotel mirror were still visible, but had faded and looked like lines of icy frost. Her bra, dark, worn, soft, was downy under Randy's fingers, and it was only when Meg shivered that he realized he was touching her.

"S-sorry. I don't know why I -"

"It's okay." Meg shifted, pulling her legs up onto the bed but not under the blankets. Randy wasn't sure where to put his hands, his eyes, his mind, and feared asking Meg what she was doing was going to break the spell.

"Hey, Ran?"

He still didn't dare speak, was half-afraid even to breathe. "Hm?"

"Look. Go ahead, look. It's okay." She sat up, half-reclined, showing him everything and nothing. Her right leg crossed her left, the wide, dark mauve line of Oechsner's haphazard incision visible, standing out against her skin like a vein in marble. She moved her arms to allow him a view of her ribs; he could still count every one. Her left side, though mostly obscured by shadow, had the same mauve stripe cutting down it, this time punctuated by dots indicating the presence of screws or clusters of wires. A small shake of her hair, and her left collarbone, looking much like her ribs, slid into view. A horizontal line slicing her skin this time, instead of vertical, the same clusters of dots followed along it.

The closer Randy looked, the more he convinced himself he saw other things – slight crooks in her fingers that weren't there before, ribs that now dented or bent at odd angles but weren't on the same side as her incision, whisper-thin scars on the backs of her wrists that looked like something had been tied there...he was sure if he pored over her, he could find a thousand outward physical insults. _'And what about what I don't see?'_ Involuntarily, he reached for Meg again, but her hand caught his before he could touch her. He shook her off, harder than he meant, and reached for her again, this time winding one arm around her back and the other around her waist before she could protest. He pulled her in fiercely, sliding a hand up to the back of her head and pressing her into him.

That now-familiar humming was back between Meg's legs, overflowing her, filling her body, spilling from her fingertips, flooding over the bed, and she didn't know what to do with it or with herself. Never with Jackson, and even with Joe, there was never an intensity like this. Jackson had always been about control; Joe about rescuing something that neither one of them could name, but whatever was building between her and Randy was a different beast entirely. _'He's not trying to save me from anything. I think he's proud I lived.'_ She smiled against Randy's chest and gently crept her hands up to the back of his neck, massaging gently until she was sure he was asleep and she was prepared to follow him. _'And if we – I – could just stay here. Tomorrow...plans.'_

* * *

><p>(Last Dance)<p>

They both knew they were awake, and they were equally aware they were refusing to move. Meg basked in the skin to skin contact Randy was allowing her; at some point during the night he had stripped down to his boxers and while she hadn't been aware of when he'd done it, she was delighted with the results. He was laying half-over her, pressing her into the bed, tracing the line of her shoulderblade with his thumb; she was lazily rubbing her foot up and down the inside of his calf. Both were wondering what the other was thinking, and neither dared to ask.

Randy rolled the heel of his hand firmly into Meg's back, amazed at how cold she was even with him half on top of her, and debated pulling the sheets fully up over them. Discarding the idea as quickly as it came to him, he instead turned further onto his side and drew his leg up between hers. There, he found the singular spot of warmth on Meg's body, and she rolled back into him, threading her legs around his. Randy burrowed his head into the nape of her neck, and let his mind wander.

* * *

><p><em>-"What's on your mind, Meg? You think any harder and the hamster is gonna explode."<em>

_Meg shrugged, went back to flipping her phone end for end over her fingers, her face blank. "Just sit. Er, lay. You have ten minutes left with the ice."_

_The silence in the room was oppressive. Randy was used to Meg's moods, but this was different. He knew Jackson had been calling more often, this time to lay down another ultimatum about Meg needing to leave her position and come back to him.'And because it's Meg, she's trying to make everyone happy. Too bad she doesn't get it – nothing makes Jackson happy.'_

"_Let's try again. Whatcha thinking about, Meg?" He snatched her phone out of her hands and winced, jarring his back in the process. Meg simply snatched her phone back, rearranged his ice packs, and returned to sitting on the counter._

"_Ran...it's okay. Jackson being Jackson. You know how it is, you had one." Meg smiled half-heartedly and squeezed Randy's shoulder, hoping for sympathy in her reference to Sam. "Speaking of relationships, how's things with your girlfriend?" She tossed her phone on the counter, dangerously close to the sink._

"_Nice topic change. And, shitty. She hates the travel schedule, she hates the women in the company, she...yeah. I told her it'd take a while to get used to it, but she wants me home all the time. I can't be here and be off."_

"_You've been with her a while. It's not like this shit's news to her. Show her a picture of me, she'll calm down."_

_Randy lifted up and shot her a confused look, causing his ice to drop again. Meg sighed, dropped down from the counter, and sat next to Randy on the table as she worked to cover his back. "Stop moving, you're going to make it worse. And I mean, I look like shit on a good day. Sweaty, no makeup, out of shape. Tell her you hang out with me and Dave. She'll stop complaining." Meg smiled and nudged Randy with her elbow. "Unless she's really got issues. If she trips out over you hanging out with a chick who smells like Bactroban, then you're on your own."_

"_You smell like roses," Randy mumbled into his elbow. "And you don't need makeup."_

"_Hm?" Meg looked up from his lower back; Randy was so much taller than she was that she truly couldn't hear him from the distance he was at._

"_Nothing. And since we're talking, your turn. What's up with your lover-boy?"_

"_Enh...he's...Jackson." Meg shrugged. "What else can I say? He knows I'm staying with the company. I love my job, even if it's not the world's most secure. I told him I'd try to stay stateside more, but that wasn't enough. He just wants me out, period. I didn't get my license just to sit on my ass. If I go home, I don't think he'd want me working, at all. It's just..."_

"_So what's gonna make him happy?"_

"_Kidnapping me and locking me in a closet." Meg swatted Randy in the back of the head with a towel before folding it and beginning to blot condensation from his skin. "God, you freeze up way too easily. Remind me to notch you down to fifteen instead of twenty."_

"_You better not be serious about that closet thing."_

"_Only halfway. He really does want me to come home. There's no way to make us both happy, so I'm staying here and hoping he gets over it. Usually...he does. If not, he'll show up here and we'll argue about it."_

_Randy reached awkwardly backward and hooked Meg by the beltloops, pulling her up towards his head and spinning her in the process. "You tell me if he gets too-"_

"_Oh, stop. What's he gonna do, realistically?" Meg pushed at Randy's shoulder. "Hey, here's an idea. Let's introduce Jackson to your girlfriend. She'd never want to leave, and he'd never let her go!" She smiled, half-apologetically, and moved back down to the ice she'd left on his back, continuing her work.-_

* * *

><p>Meg stretched gently next to Randy, feeling the thickness of his leg between hers, and worked feverishly to force down the thoughts that sprang into her mind. His hand had slipped down from her shoulder and was now drawing lines up and down her arm. As he passed back and forth, she traced her fingers around the edges of the rose inked into his forearm, then dared herself to draw a fingertip line through just one of the skulls framing the flower. When nothing happened, she tested herself again, rubbing her thumb across his arm. Frozen, waiting, Meg felt the room stop moving around her...but again, nothing. <em>'Whatever it was...maybe...because I said I'll leave Randy alone, it's going to leave me alone.' <em>She smiled, and drew the back of his hand under her face, enjoying the rough feel of his skin. _'He's here. It's enough for now. It's enough at all.'_

They stayed in bed for hours, ignoring hunger, without sound, absorbed in each others' touch. Randy was the first to break their silence, not because he wanted to end their moment in bed, but because he wanted to offer Meg one last thing before he had to leave. Slowly, he slid his hand out from where she had placed it under her and leaned up, brushing her hair from the side of her face, his breath gentle on her cheek. He traced the line of the scar across her ribs, fully prepared for Meg to tense or pull away from him, but she did neither. Instead, she turned in his arms and tilted her face up toward him, unaware of how close he was, nearly crashing into him as she moved.

"Sorry," she whispered, "I didn't think you were-"

Randy leaned in toward her, hotly close, for a fraction of a second, then thought he saw Meg flinch. He forced himself to stop, then closed his eyes and dropped his head to her shoulder. "No, Meg, I shouldn't. I'm sorry."

Her fingers crept up his spine, spider's legs of ice, wrapping around the base of his neck and guiding him back to look at her. "Yeah, and I started it. So...blame me." She eased herself a few inches back from him, but refused to relinquish her hold. "You okay?"

_'As long as I don't move, we're both good.'_ "Yeah. I was gonna ask...how do you feel about dinner?"

Meg fixed him with a confused look, prompting him to smile and tug the ends of her hair. "No, I mean, going downstairs to dinner. Nice view of the bay, supposed to be pretty decent food...whatcha think?"

"I don't have anything to wear. It's dressy."

"I swear to God, Meg. _Stubborn. _I'll go in sweats if it makes you feel better."

"No! No. You'd wear the ratty ones with the holes in the ass. I'll figure something out." Her bra strap had slipped entirely off her right shoulder, and it was all Randy could do not to stare as it trailed down Meg's arm, curling deliciously near her elbow, folding part of the front of her bra with it. "There's a spa downstairs, right?"

"Hm? Uh, I think, why?"

"Because it's bad enough I'm going to dress like I fell out of a Goodwill. I can try to put a little makeup on, put some effort in. Act right, you know?" Her eyes were fixed on his, but somewhere else entirely.

"Meg..." Randy's tone was dangerous. "If you so much as put on chapstick, I'm ordering McDonald's and staying in the room." She laughed, but the sound was rat-chewed and stringy. "I'm serious. You don't wear any of that shit anyway; why start now?"

"Just let me win this one, okay?" Her hands trailed from his neck across the broad expanse of his shoulders, then down across his chest, and he had to close his eyes again. "Please?"

He lowered himself onto her, trapping her arms against him, urging her to lean up into him, knowing he'd already lost this fight and so many others. "Meg...just be happy, okay? Whatever you want." He felt her fingertips tense against his chest, her lips curl into a smile against the skin of his shoulder, and gave up to her.

* * *

><p>Meg did sneak down to the spa while he was showering, coming back with only four small things in hand. She was in pajamas when Randy went into the bathroom; when he came out, she was dressed for dinner and leaning far over the dresser, trying desperately not to stab herself in the eye with her mascara.<p>

"Wow. I guess I really can't go in sweats, huh?" Randy's gaze was appreciative; he had no idea where her outfit had come from, but he had a new appreciation for her ability to continually surprise him. _'I still don't think you need the makeup, but it's not like that night with Jackson. This is nice, that was over the top.'_

"Oh, shut up. Dark jeans and a peasant sweater don't count as dressed-up, neither does lipstick and a little bit of dust on my eyes. And as for you," Meg turned and bumped him in the chest with the tube of mascara, "_You _wear what you want." She went back to dabbing at her lashes with the wand, the scent of roses thick around her.

A half-hour later, once Meg's nerves had settled, she walked in to the resort's restaurant on Randy's arm, highly aware of the attention focused on them, wishing she had a pair of heels and not just thin ballet flats, but at the same time, confident that she could handle herself. _'And if not, I can always find a campfire. Har, har, har.'_ Something else pulled at the edges of her mind, but Meg couldn't place it, and after two glasses of wine, she found herself no longer caring. The food was superb, a piano played distantly in the lobby, and Randy encouraged her to pick a dessert for both of them at the end.

"Seriously? I don't know how you can think about more. I could fall over, right now. I'm not used to this."

"Then I can eat it and you can look at it. Actually, here, I know. How about tiramisu?"

Meg nodded eagerly; the waiter smiled at them and disappeared, returning with two plates, a giant portion of the dessert offering, and an unopened bottle of moscato, which he was eager to inform them was courtesy of the hotel. Meg shrugged, and clinked her empty dessert wine glass against Randy's. "Perk of the job, right?"

"Not usually, but I'm not going to complain." He smiled and passed her a fork.

On the verge of thanking whatever was listening for granting them a perfect night, he became acutely aware that Meg's attention was suddenly focused over his shoulder. "Don't look now," she giggled quietly, "But Barbie's on her way over. You want to handle this one, or should I?"

Randy groaned and rolled his eyes; of course the strange woman from the beach would be making a bee-line for him in the restaurant. _'It wouldn't be us if it wasn't a disaster every time.'_ "I'll take care of it. She's a slow learner."

Prepared to politely tell the woman to leave them alone, he was entirely unprepared for her to help herself to a seat next to him in the booth and begin to trail her finger down his arm.

"Glad to see you survived. She's..._special_. Now that you've gotten dinner out of the way, let's go out for drinks."

The look on Randy's face was one of confused disgust; the woman's eyes were both predatory and crazed. He gently lifted her fingers from his arm. Undeterred, she simply slipped her hand under the tablecloth and onto his leg. Randy jumped, and backed down the length of the booth – good for getting temporarily away from her, bad for getting cornered by her.

"We went over this last night. I'm not interested, and you're intruding on my dinner."

"And you didn't say _date,_" the woman interjected, "So obviously it's not _that_ serious. How about I make you look good, and we go over to the bar?" Meg raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, continuing to wait for Randy's solution to the situation to materialize.

"You'll make me look great when you leave. Have a good night."

"You are not _seriously_ going to sit here with _that_ when I'm telling you I'll take you out tonight..." The woman was incredulous.

"Go. Now. _Right _now. And stop insulting her, she's ten times what you are." Randy pointed over the woman's shoulder into the dining room, thoroughly sick of dealing with the stranger and her ridiculousness. The woman looked over her shoulder, back at Randy, over to Meg, and back again. Randy's gesture never wavered, and Meg simply sipped at her wine with a half-smile on her face, rubbing her foot up and down the length of Randy's shin the entire time.

"You two are _perfect _for each other. Fucking crazy." She backed away from the table, adjusting her skirt downward and shaking her head in disbelief, flipping him a dramatic middle finger once she was at a distance.

"Thanks, Ran." Meg's voice was quiet, but clearly pleased.

"For what? If that was a guy, I would have knocked him on his ass. Women...all you can do is talk. Even if all I did was back her off of the table, she'd probably say I broke her arm or something."

"Well, yeah, for getting rid of her. But you didn't have to say all that. She _was_ pretty, at least. You _would_ look better with someone like that." Meg swirled her wine, then poured a refill.

"Meg...she's not you. I don't give a shit _who_ she is. Period." Randy smiled, self-conscious, and forked a piece of their nearly-forgotten tiramisu off of the plate. "Back to dessert?"

Meg stole the fork from his hand, enjoying the bite and making a show out of licking the crème that was stuck to the utensil. "Of course. You have _excellent _taste." She winked, and passed the fork back to Randy, who was feeling that same, foreign heat Meg had experienced, building low in his stomach, spilling out of him, flooding the room. He felt blindly for his glass of wine, and nearly knocked it to the table once he located it.

"Meg...sometimes you..." He smiled nervously. "Should I have them send a bottle of this upstairs?"

"Only one? What if I don't want to share?"

Randy bit down a moan and made a mental note to ask the waiter to send up several bottles of whatever constituted 'wine like what we had with dessert,' and then reached across the table for Meg's hands. "Well...I don't want to share, either."

Dessert finished, conversation comfortably slow and their wine request placed and waiting for them in their room, Randy escorted her from the restaurant. As they walked to the elevators, he could hear her humming quietly in tune with the piano player, who was deep into something slow and melodic. _'The only part I haven't fixed, yet,' _Randy thought, and while they waited for the elevator to return to the lobby, he stepped behind Meg and pulled her back against him, wrapping his arms around her. He began a gentle sway and prayed it was in time to the music, then decided Meg wouldn't care anyway, and pulled her tighter against him.

"My after-dinner dance?"

"Shut up, Meg." His tone was good-natured, and he pressed her arms into a cautious hug, relieved when she wrapped her arms over his and squeezed him in return.

"I'll take it. I can't dance, either." She nestled her head into his arm, pleasantly relaxed from the wine, still reeling from the compliments she felt he hadn't realized he had given her. When the elevator doors opened, he gently spun her into the car, watching the doors shut in front of them, not giving up on their swaying even though the piano's sound had long since faded. Meg closed her eyes, still unable to shake the nagging feeling that something was coiled, waiting, but desperate to simply lose herself in the moment and enjoy what he was offering her. _'Why do I feel like something's off? It's Randy. He's never...this isn't making sense. What am I missing? Why am I even thinking like that?'_

Walking past the mirror outside the elevator, it finally hit Meg. _'Dinner...drinks...we danced, sorta...we're going back to our room...' _She froze, almost tripping Randy in the process, and spun to face him. "Ran...is this...I mean, did you..." Meg stopped, unsure how to ask what she meant, and equally unsure it even mattered. He held her in front of the mirror, watching their reflection.

"I wanted to make it...different. I can't fix it, but I wanted to make it different."

Meg struggled to keep her smile from wavering into tears; she had spent the past three days teetering on the edge of nirvana and with tonight, she was ready to fall to her knees and weep, not just with joy but with relief. She wasn't ready to forgive herself, allow herself, let herself – but she was ready to enjoy the small moments, whatever they were. Turning, she popped up onto her toes and wrapped her arms as far up around Randy's neck as her height would allow.

"Thank you," Meg murmured into his neck, trying to will herself away from kissing him, as much as her body told her otherwise. "Thank you, because I can remember this," Meg backed away, trying to catch Randy's eyes, "And not him."

* * *

><p>He gently led her to their door, letting her open it ahead of him, waiting for her to open the wine and pour their glasses, and then for her to shuffle blankets to the balcony so they could sit outside. <em>'There's my Meg. Balconies. Always balconies.' <em>"Did they send the right wine? I didn't know what to ask for..."

"Ran, hush. And c'mere." Meg had slipped her flats off and padded out to the balcony, wine in tow. "It's our last night. I just want to enjoy it." She patted the space next to her on the chaise, encouraging Randy to curl in behind her. He opened the top two buttons on his shirt before stepping out into the crisp air, sitting first at the foot of the lounger.

"Meg..." His voice was hesitant, moreso than Meg could remember hearing from him in months. "_Was _tonight okay? I didn't want to bring him up, but I was thinking..."

She pressed a finger over his lips, then handed him a glass of wine. "Hon...it was perfect. The only thing that's going to make it better is when we fall asleep together later." She nudged him gently, her smile on the line between a promise and an invitation. They managed a bottle on the balcony before the cold was too much even for Randy, and retreated to the sanctuary of their bed, with Meg begging for five minutes to wash the eyeliner off.

"See? _That's_ why you shouldn't wear it."

"What's that?" Meg called over the faucet in the bathroom. "Oh, hell," she continued, "While you're out there, throw me something I can sleep in?"

"Because you're in there, and I'm out here, that's why." Randy's voice barely carried from the bed, and he waved her off with a smile, sure she wouldn't press the issue. He did throw her one of his t-shirts, hoping against hope that after the previous night's escapade in her underwear, Meg wouldn't say anything.

And she didn't, emerging from the bathroom in his heathered grey tee, barely grazing her mid-thigh. Randy's breath caught in his throat; he was almost positive she wasn't wearing a bra. _'And...why? What else is she not...no. Orton, stop. It's not like that, not for you. Not with her.' _

* * *

><p>As they lay together, Meg occasionally rubbing a foot over his leg, Randy tracing a finger along the length of her arm, both could feel sleep start to creep around their edges like a thief, ready to take their evening away. Determined not to give in, Randy stretched and fought for a topic of conversation, settling on Meg's plans for the next day, once he left.<p>

"I didn't have any. Honestly. I figured I'd bum around here for a few days until I decided where I wanted to go. I still have a _lot_ to set right with Dave, too."

"Meg...any chance I could get you to stay here til I'm done with filming?" He tried to read her, feel her, for any sort of a reaction, but got nothing. "Meg?"

"Ran...are you...that's a lot. I mean, not for me. That's a lot for _you_." Meg shifted again, and her shirt slipped further upward. Randy gave up on control and settled for camouflage, rolling onto his stomach, allowing his mind to wander only as far as his body would let him carry on a conversation.

"I want to know you're safe, Meggie. That's all. You can go wherever you want, you know that."

"Randy...it's not about that." She pushed at his shoulder, smiling. "I just don't want you focused on me. You need to focus on yourself. And the movie. And besides, what happens when you're done filming?"

"We can worry about that when we get there. Right now, you're forty-five minutes from me, it seems like you...like it? I don't know." He dropped his head. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't..."

"Ran...do you want me to stay here?" Meg's voice, suddenly serious, brought his eyes up to hers.

"Yeah, Meggie. I do."

"You win, hon. I'm here." She smiled, brushed at his cheek, and turned to refill their wine glassed, affording him a near-complete view of her ass. The shirt he'd given her was twisted around her waist, riding up well past decency, and though he knew he should look anywhere but at her, he couldn't help but stare. His eyes lit upon yet another paper-thin scar, starting at her right hip and working its way across her backside, and Randy felt his hands clench. She rolled back to face him, wine in hand. "Whatever you said to the waiter, it worked. This is amazing." She slid up the bed, effectively dragging her shirt down over her thighs, and drank deeply.

"Meg, if I did one more thing, would it be okay?"

As if reading his mind, Meg leaned in toward him, drunkenly closing the distance between them far too fast for Randy to prepare to follow through on his idea. "Randy," she breathed, entirely honey and peaches from the wine, "I _want_ to. You _know_ I want to." She trailed her fingernails up and down his arms. "And you know I can't."

"Meg...yes. You can." He could abide the ache in his body; the ache in his mind and heart were fast becoming a keening wail.

"You _know_ I can't." She leaned in dangerously close to his lips, almost as if daring herself to break her own promise. "I can't explain it. Not now, at least." She backed away from him, slowly. "But...call your friend. Tell him to send you the files. That's the one thing I _can _do for you." Meg sighed. "Maybe that can help explain. Because...I don't know. I'm sorry, Ran." She returned to her wine, drinking as though she wanted to obliterate some part of herself.

"Meg..." His tone was more a plea than anything else, and her heart broke to hear it, but at the same time, his arms chattered at her, warning her away from him, daring her to cross the line and see what havoc they could wreak in both their lives. She forced him to his back, straddled him, knowing what she felt as she sat over him and caring while not caring while wishing she could do anything to silence the screaming in her head. For him, the heat between her legs was searing, intolerable, and he dug his fingers into her hips, trying to urge her to move, stay, finish, anything – anything that wasn't telling him 'no' again and again.

"Randy...I'm sorry. I'm _so_ sorry. Maybe once you read the files, you'll know. I just...I won't break you the way I broke everyone else."

"You know you've _never_ hurt me, Meg. Ever."

She dropped herself down over him, tangling her legs through his, wishing she had put on panties before coming to bed because she could feel a slickness between her thighs that she hadn't felt in months. _'Meg, stop. It's the wine, you're lonely, it's...something. Stop it. Stop it now.' _Randy rolled over her, always careful of her side and shoulder, feeling himself settle heavily between her legs - and in the moment, not caring, wanting her to feel what he felt, hoping she was simmering, coiled, secretly ready despite being afraid – and instead, feeling her lock up underneath him, her breathing hitch in a way that indicated fear before lust.

"Randy...I'm trying to tell you I'm afraid of hurting you." The slickness continued, more now, a flowing heat that forced her to push herself up against him, and as much as she was afraid she was also hoping he would ask her to put her fears aside and allow him passage just the once.

"Then why do you keep moving?" He was over her fully, breathing his words onto her, practically begging her.

"I don't know, Randy. Because I can't stop it and I know I have to."

He sighed against her neck, feeling her entire body shiver convulsively, knowing that he had to be the one to pull back because it truly was all too much for her.

"Meg...then tell me where the middle is."

"Finish our wine. Hold me. Like last night." She slid down against him, feeling him catch against the inside of her hip, and her shirt came fully up again. Randy's moan was all the encouragement she needed, and her shirt came off, wine forgotten for the moment. "I can't," she whispered against his neck, "I can't. Please, Ran, don't ask me to. Please."

"Meg," he panted, "I won't." his breath hitched one, then twice, and he forced himself off of her, bucking his hips down into the bed, struggling for words, "You...don't have to...please...Meg..."

"Shh," She countered, "Wine. And tell me about tomorrow." She never did bother finding her shirt, and they fell asleep threaded through each other, Randy's promises to take care of everything her echoing in her mind.

* * *

><p>(Panakhida)<p>

"I don't want you to worry about me. You _can't_ worry about me, I'm staying in the resort. You know exactly where I'm going to be since you set it up with them. They loaned me a laptop. You wrote down directions for Skype. I can _see_ you literally every day. _And_ night." Meg's fingers traced Randy's, tried to at least keep his hands from moving; he was fighting not to make eye contact with her and damned if she wasn't going to either force him to look or else hold him still enough to allow her to climb onto him and pin him in place where he sat.

Randy, stubborn to the last, was bouncing his leg so hard the entire SUV was rattling, and had, until Meg had begun to play with his fingers, been drumming on the steering wheel. He was wrestling with the idea of telling the film company something had come up and he couldn't go back to Vancouver, staying or going as he and Meg preferred, but in any event – not leaving her again. Things were pleasantly unsettled between them. On the razor's edge of the grey area between limits they should and should not test together, Meg had allowed him so close to her that to leave her now felt less like pulling off a bandage and more like breaking a bone – a dull, relentless ache that would gnaw at him, make him into an angry and petulant person all over again after three days of allowing himself to exhale. _'I'm not going to look at her. I can't look at her. I'm going to lose it if I look at her. I just need to go. I can't go.'_

Meg let go of his hands and reached for his face, waiting to see what he would do. He still looked out his window, away from her, occasionally trying to rub her hands away on his sleeves, in part because he was trying to will the emotion out of his eyes. _'Why is this hurting him so badly? I'm right here. After all this, he has to know I'm not leaving. What else can I offer him?'_

"Meg, stop." Randy pushed her hands down.

Meg let go, leaned back into the passenger seat, and waited. Minutes ticked by; the look of quiet acceptance on her face slowly shifted to one of hurt resignation. "Well. That's the first time all weekend you said _that_. Anyway...so you're not late...it's a long drive...I'll head back now. We can talk when you want." She turned away from him and reached to open the door, but Randy's hand was over hers before she could pull the handle.

He didn't say anything – and really, he didn't have to, he knew exactly what the problem was as well as how to fix it – as he pulled Meg across her seat and toward him. Meg, also fully aware of the problem, felt otherwise about the need to speak.

"Ran...I want to...but no. I'm sorry. You know what I do. I break people. I break everything." She slipped lower in his grasp, leaned over the gap between their seats, and wrapped herself around him, holding him so tightly she felt her collarbone crackle under her scar. Somewhere between hurt and shocked, Randy had barely managed to bring his arms up to her to reciprocate the gesture before she was backing away from him, out the door, telling him to call, telling him she'd be in their room the rest of the night. She was out of the marina parking lot before he even fully realized what she said, before he realized she was still wearing his zip-up.

The drive back to the film lot was punctuated by a few near-miss collisions and close-call sideswipes; he had to pull over more than once to try to calm his nerves or wait for the nausea to pass. _'She wants to. I can start there. No. I can start with Joe. Then, I can see what she still wants.'_


	11. A Reckoning

Welcome to everyone new, and thank you to the amazing SweetHigh and Nattiebroskette (both amazing writers; if you haven't checked out their work, I highly recommend it!) for the lovely reviews. 

Onward!

* * *

><p>Meg kept her word, hanging around the resort, waiting the rest of the late afternoon and early evening for Randy to dial her on Skype. When he didn't, Meg wasn't entirely surprised. <em>'He was angry. I hurt him. It's what I do. Better you left it where it was, Meg. Do anything else, and it would have ended worse.'<em> Leaving the laptop, Meg moved to her cell phone, checking for messages. _'Now that I know what I'm looking for, anyway.'_ She hadn't missed any calls from Randy, but surprisingly, one call from Dave had snuck through – though he hadn't left voicemail.

"You. You're the one thing I haven't dealt with. And what do I even want to say?" Meg flopped into the bed she had earlier shared with Randy, raising a cloud of his cologne around her and bringing a twinge of longing to her stomach that she had to force down, hearing the skulls hissing in the back of her mind. "Why, Dave? What was the point? That's all I want to know. You've never been able to stop me from _anything_ – why try now?"

* * *

><p>Dave didn't expect Meg to pick up, and he didn't bother leaving voicemail. The super at his apartment complex had called, asking him politely not to send Meg back, and it took all of forty-five seconds to figure out what had gone on. Dave hadn't counted on Randy's compulsive dialing habits; his assumption had been that Randy would leave well enough alone at the airport and would simply board his plane, not that he would try to call Meg before takeoff. <em>'Well, I'm the idiot for that one. Busted, Dave' <em>Knowing that Meg had put two and two together, all he felt he could do was wait.

When waiting wore too heavily on his conscience, he called again, despite being on the clock. When Meg didn't answer, he knew he deserved it – but he also didn't know how long she planned on maintaining her silence. Drumming his fingers on his phone, he tried to focus on his work, and on preparing the man across from him for his return to the ring, but couldn't help himself from wandering far afield in his thoughts.

"You okay, ol' man? Not pissed at me about your girl, are you?" Joe's voice was half-tease, half-concern; he knew Dave was enough of a professional to not hold a grudge. He also knew Dave never really wanted him to pair with Meg and had absolutely never approved of Meg's decision to simply run off, so he didn't anticipate too much blowback on that front. _'It's good – I can go to triage, I don't have to deal with her backstage, my fiancee is traveling with me again – this all works. Get this exam on the books, and then I'm outta here – shit to do at home, anyway.'_

"No, Joe. Everything's fine. You're both adults; you make your own decisions." Dave clapped the younger man on the back, trying to be convivial. "Did you and the lady ever pick a date, by the way?" _'I'd really like to drop one of Meg's vicodin in your protein shake and then bust you to the Wellness Board myself. But I also like my job. Let's compromise, asshole: You're an asshole.'_

"Nah. We're still working shit out, but it's good, it's good." Joe smiled, broadly, and let Dave lead him through a series of stretches and tests, knowing full well he wasn't ready to come back quite yet, but feeling confident that it would be soon. _'And 'soon' means I get my hands on you, Randy. Fuck that crazy bitch as many times as you want – we still have shit to settle.'_

* * *

><p>Meg waited, waited longer, til late evening, wrapped herself in the sheets – <em>'Because they still smell like you. Why did I let you leave?'<em> - then resigned herself to the fact that he simply wouldn't be calling her that night. She reached for her phone regardless, knowing that if she dialed the next number she was thinking of, her call would be answered regardless of time. Tapping at buttons on the screen, Meg took a few steadying breaths while the phone rang.

"Meg?"

"Yeah, Dave. We have a few things to sort out."

* * *

><p>Their conversation was more argument than chatter, starting back on the shoulder of the off-ramp weeks ago, winding its way across the country, eventually parking itself in Seattle, where Dave felt he could get a somewhat logically-based upper hand.<p>

"Meg, look. You have to understand. You were so wrapped up in him, and right after Joe – right after Jackson – can you fault me for being concerned?"

"I can fault you for _how_ you handled things. I'm not a child! You don't get to make decisions for me. Telling me to go to your apartment was one thing, but you _told _me, _told_ Randy, that he would be keeping an eye on me. Then you worked as hard as you could to take him away from me. You basically made sure I would be alone."

"I made sure you could stand on your own two feet, Meg. And are you hearing yourself? Taking him away from you?" Dave sighed heavily, working to gentle down his voice. "Sweetheart, I love you, but you're...he's not yours. He's not _anyone's_, sure, but he's not yours, either. There is no 'taking him away' and it scares me that you're already thinking of someone – anyone – like that. In that way. You're not worried it's too much? Wouldn't you tell _him_ it was too much, if he was in your position?"

"And I spent the last three – no, four – days with him, so now what?" Meg, triumphant, let her vacation dangle in midair in front of Dave, taunting him. "I didn't run away, I went somewhere I knew I would be safe – and that was actually the thing we _all_ agreed on, before you turned into an asshole. I stayed with him, didn't fuck him, didn't even _kiss_ him – so what was your problem, Dave? I'm such a train wreck that I can't control myself? Or Randy's such a sex-crazed, desperate motherfucker that he'd take advantage of me just because I was there? Nevermind that he completely derailed his job for me, trying to find me, trying to make sure I wasn't dead in a ditch somewhere. What were you doing, Dave? Were _you_ looking for me?"

"Meg...ask Randy. We were coming to New Orleans, we were planning to look for you -"

"And the only one who _did_ was Randy. And that was _before_ you were scheduled to be there."

Dave sighed; Meg had him there. _'But, she's still missing my point in doing what I did.' _"Meg, you needed space. Period. You weren't thinking clearly, you were leaning on him for everything. I'm not going to change my mind on that. Whether I did that in the right way or not...okay. Obviously not. Everyone's done some wrong, here."

"Dave, and how the fuck would you know what I was thinking? Did you ask? No, you didn't! All you did was add your name to the list of people I know will lie to me!" Meg, screaming now, was holding her phone at arm's length and bellowing into it, tears of rage coursing down her face.

"You need to calm down. I can't talk to you like this." Dave, irritatingly calm, was picking at his nails in the triage bay, relieved Joe had left, chalking all of Meg's outburst up to a side-effect of the accident and a product of her PTSD. "You've been through a lot. I don't even know what you've been through, you're right. And I should have just told you what I thought. But let's be real, Meg – even if I did, would you have listened?"

Meg, for her part, was silent, knowing Dave was right. _'Of course I wouldn't have listened. He told me to stay away, leave Randy alone, and I was in bed half-naked with him last night.'_ "No, Dave. I wouldn't have listened. But that's my mistake to make."

"Not when always it takes other people _with_ you, it isn't!" The words flew from Dave's mouth before he could stop them, and he clapped a hand over his mouth, trying desperately – and failing – to shovel them from the air back into his throat.

Meg was suddenly, painfully aware of the bay's waves lapping at the ridges of sand on the beach. She could hear them through the glass door of the balcony, a rhythmic whispering sound that kept her breathing even; she lined her exhalation up with each pull of the water in an effort to try not to shriek at Dave. After a minute's worth of internal struggle, she spoke.

"You've never hurt me intentionally, Dave. And you've always said you believed the shit I did – no matter how dumb – has been for a reason. But this...you...this was _intentional_. And what you did to me...to Randy...was just as bad as what I did to Joe. You hurt _him_, Dave. I'm used to it, the way it feels, the way it cuts into you and nothing grows back together right. But Randy? No. He trusted you. He believed you trusted him. That's all fucked up now, Dave. There wasn't even a _purpose_ to what you did. You told him to watch me, then you set shit up so he couldn't. And you know what? He ended up afraid again. I fucked up my phone – I didn't know I couldn't remember how to use it – but if Randy had just _known _what you were doing...after everything that happened...he thought..." She trailed off; Dave remained oddly silent. Meg was almost panting from the effort of controlling herself, but she had one last shot to fire. "I can get over it, Dave. Did you ever stop to ask yourself if _he_ could?"

"Meg, I-"

"Gotta go, Dave. I'll talk to you later." Meg pressed the large red button on the screen of her phone and stared at her reflection in the dark glass. "Guess I'm down to one person. And that's only if I didn't fuck it up when you left." she whispered to herself. "If I did...well...then I don't know what to do. Start over, Meg. Figure it out." She rolled onto her back and pulled Randy's pillow over her chest, willing herself to sleep, willing herself further to not miss the tone from the laptop if he should call her.

* * *

><p>Randy paced around his trailer, feeling more and more claustrophobic and irritable. He had been told, through a third-and-fourth-hand series of technicians, that he wasn't actually needed for the stunts that day. <em>'Of course not. They didn't call, and I could have spent an extra night with her.'<em> Again, he was tempted to march up to the director and tell him to scrap the whole thing, find another actor, and let hair and makeup know that their choice in lipstick sucked, but Meg's voice echoing in his head kept him from lashing out. _'She asked me to focus on myself and the movie. I just have to get through this.' _He picked up his phone with every intention of calling her, then dropped it and turned his laptop on. He toggled his way over to his email account, hoping Remy had gotten back to him. Surprisingly, he had, but nothing was attached to the message.

_'Bonjour, Randy. It will be several days before I have completed files to send. The departments are working to convert the paper files into things that will display on a computer – I do not understand the process, but they tell me it is somehow simpler for you at the end. I have not heard from Oechsner or Tulane, but attached are copies of the releases your Meg will need to sign and return in order to access her records. Also, Oechsner is requesting payment in full. I did not know what to tell them; perhaps you will have a better idea. Malheureusement, the figure is quite large. Nothing can be easy, n'est-ce pas?'_

Randy sighed; the best he could do would be to get the forms back to Meg, ask her to sign them, and hope she hadn't changed her mind. _'And I have to make sure she doesn't ask about the bills. She'd kill me.'_

He smiled and tossed himself down on his thin, dusty mattress, allowing his mind to wander back through the past three days. They were physically frustrating, to be sure, but he watched Meg come closer and closer to who she used to be, and that was worth any amount of discomfort he'd had to endure. _'Besides, that's what the shower is for,' _he mused, and went back to trailing his fingers around the bed, remembering how Meg's shoulders felt under his touch, the way she had shivered, and the desperation in her eyes when they'd been millimeters away from kissing each other and then – who knew what else.

"What are you trying to tell me, Meg? You keep saying you can't explain, but why not?" Randy's words hovered in the air as he looked over to his laptop and silently willed Remy to hurry with whatever information he could send. None of the pieces he currently had fit together, even with Meg's help. Sighing, he checked the lock on his trailer's door, and went back to his bed. Even if he couldn't truly have her, his mind could play at the edges of possibility. It was enough for now, and then sleep might follow.

* * *

><p>Meg shifted in bed, not understanding how she was hearing an alarm when her phone's screen hadn't lit up. <em>'Don't I remember how to use the alarm? Why would I even set it?'<em> Pieces shifted into place slowly in her mind, and then she bolted upright in the bed, hurling herself down its length, aiming for her laptop. _'It's got to be Skype! Wait, Randy – please, don't hang up, just wait!' _She slapped desperately at the keys, trying to get the screen to wake up, and then forced herself to mentally jumble through the directions Randy had left for her. Clicking on the blue phone icon, she dropped the laptop onto the bed and prayed she'd guessed correctly while waiting for the camera to snap into focus.

"Meggie? You okay?" Randy wasn't sure if he should be amused or worried; from the angle she was at, he could see tangled hair, her shoulder, the straps of her bra and tank top dangling down her arm, and most of her left side – but none of her face. "Kiddo, adjust the camera. Er, the screen. It's the dot at the top of the laptop. You see it?"

A few nauseatingly swift and angular tilts later, and Meg's sleepy visage was on his screen. "Ran, what time is it?"

"Don't hate me...three-thirty."

"In the morning?"

He shrugged, looking suddenly interested in something on the table in front of him. "I'm sorry. You're probably tired. I'll talk to you later."

"No, Ran. No. It's okay. I just thought you weren't gonna call tonight. That's all." Meg's smile was relieved. "I'm glad you did. I thought you were mad at me. It's lonely here without you." She immediately mentally kicked herself for saying it; she knew he didn't want to leave her, and with a complaint in the air, it would be even more difficult for him.

"Meg, I can-"

"Nope. Finish what you started." She smiled sleepily, and reached forward to touch his face on the screen, flinching when her hand bumped cold plastic. "I talked to Dave earlier."

Randy tilted his head to look at her, surprised. "You called him?"

"Other way around. Well, sorta." She started to yawn, working to force it down. "He called me and I called him back. We...didn't really work anything out. He's probably going to call you next." Meg explained what they'd said, watching the look on Randy's face become harder and harder regardless of how she phrased or spun the conversation. "Ran...what?" Her tone was confused, bordering on sad.

He rubbed his hands over his face, dropping his head down several times before deciding what to say. "This...it's hard, because I know Dave's so important to you." He allowed his eyes to meet hers, and all he found was patience. "I want to tear him apart. He wanted me to help you, then he didn't want me near you at all, and it's like he blames you for his decision. Or he thinks I'm some kind of perv, whichever."

Meg rubbed at the screen again, instinctively, and rolled her eyes in frustration when she again pressed plastic instead of skin. "This fucking _thing,_" she muttered.

"No, Meg, I'm sorry. I shouldn't talk shit about Dave, and-"

"Not that, dumbass. _This_ thing. Skype, and the laptop. I keep trying to touch you and I can't." Sleep having got the better of Meg's mouth, she began to ramble. "Dave was wrong for what he did, and I told him so. My problem was what he did to you. You didn't deserve that. I put you through enough; Dave was supposed to be helping you. Helping _us_. And now we're here – well, I'm here, you're there – and if Dave had just left us alone, it's like, would it be better? You'd still be in Vancouver, but would we have had to sneak around like this? Would we have been talking to each other the whole time? What else would have happened, you know?" She sighed. "Maybe I'd still be in Seattle. Now, I have no idea. Well, I have an idea, but – you know what? Let me hush." She smiled at him. "You authorized sneak tactics."

Randy, whose face had relaxed considerably listening to Meg talk, now blinked and startled. "Wait, I did what?"

"Nothing, Ran. Just remember that you said you like surprises. Or something like that." Meg giggled, drowsy, wanting to keep him in front of her for the rest of the night. She leaned back into the headboard, affording Randy a full view of her sleep-worn body, trying to arrange clothing and limbs so she was comfortable but covered. "Tell me about your day?"

He smiled, and reached for the screen himself, fingers thumping against it. _'Goddamn it. You're not here.'_ Moving his laptop to his bed, Randy settled in and began his own rambling story: his sloppy drive back up to the film lot, then not being needed at all for the first day – which brought an audible whine from Meg's throat – then talking to Remy, and then he found himself stopping short, face flushed, as he realized he was preparing to tell her he'd later locked his door and helped himself to several mental servings of her. The smile on her face was electric; he suspected she knew what he'd been about to reveal, and so stammered his way into silence, eyes firmly fixed on the keyboard.

"Hey, Ran?" Meg's voice was gentle, and he managed to meet her gaze on-screen. "You're _good_ now, right?"

The same golden heat that threaded out across him on their last night together, that flooded his room earlier that evening when he was drowning himself in the memory of her cool skin and soft scent, crashed over him again, this time almost suffocating in intensity. He tried to breathe, tried to will words out into the space between them – nothing came – just a flying, glittering ether that made it impossible for him to picture anything but her. Slowly, he felt the walls of reality build back up around him, and as his eyes came to focus on the woman with the now-demure smile reclining in front of him, a singular word went tumbling around his thoughts: _'Mine.'_

* * *

><p>Waking to the pounding of yet another stagehand, Randy shifted uncomfortably in bed, banging his elbow into his laptop and momentarily forgetting why it was next to him on his sheets instead of safely on the table near the door. Allowing himself a second's worth of composure, he considered the screen carefully, then smiled. Meg's sleeping figure, now wrapped in his zip-up, lay on the hotel sheets in front of him, the same small smile still on her face. He traced his thumb along the pixellated line of her arm, stretched, and promptly told the stagehand to fuck off. <em>'This is going to be a good morning. There's my girl. Get through the movie, figure out where she's going, then get us both there. If that's what she wants. That's got to be what she wants, right?'<em> He sped through his morning routines, sped through filming, and returned to the solitude of his trailer – not just locking the door behind him, but making sure the lid to the laptop was firmly latched down.

"Oh well," Randy shrugged, commenting to the empty room. "Never said I was a saint."

* * *

><p>Meg woke with a renewed sense of purpose, even if her current idea was also going to fall firmly in the category of, 'Well-meaning yet ill-advised.' Her phone rang several times, all of them Dave, all of them being hung up on before they could even filter to voicemail. <em>'I'm beginning to like Skype more and more...there's only one person I want to talk to like that, anyway.'<em> Opening several browser windows, she shuffled through various websites, made a ridiculous number of phone calls, and never once considered that Dave was reading the billing statements since he was the one who had purchased her the phone.

"Meg, what the hell are you up to?" Dave puzzled out loud, scrolling through page after page of Meg's phone bill. "There's nothing _in_ Saint Charles..." He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Okay. Okay, Meg. You win. I fucked up, and you win."


	12. Enter Superwoman

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! Please do keep in contact with me, I welcome all feedback and comments!

* * *

><p>"Get the fuck out, and <em>stay<em> the fuck out!" Sarah threw the nearest heavy object – in this case, a phone book – at the kit of pigeons that had wandered into the vestibule of the rental office, seeking respite from the unseasonably cold Missouri weather. "Little two-legged shit machines," she grumbled. She lowered the volume on the television mounted in the corner but did nothing about the radio on her desk before answering the phone. "Time Centre Apartments, Sarah speaking." She kicked her feet up on her desk, knocking an entire stack of rental applications to the floor. "Oops. Hey, hang on a minute."

Meg smiled. Between the television in the background and the radio in the foreground, plus the familiar hush of paperwork hitting the floor and the muttered curses following the woman dropping the phone on the desk, she felt immediately at ease. _'Randy might say it's a little too relaxed...but she sounds normal. I need normal.'_ Meg waited patiently, and before long the woman materialized on the line a second time. "Sarah speaking, did I say that already?"

"Yeah, but it's fine. Sounds like it's one of those days." Meg chuckled and commiserated; she knew all too well what it was like to have her attention pulled in too many directions and figured she'd caught the office in a busy moment. "If it's a bad time, I can call back."

"No, it's all good. Just too much on my desk. What can I do for you?"

"I was hoping you had a two bed, one bath unit available? Don't care what side of the complex, don't care about parking, don't care what floor, and I won't be there to see it before I rent it – if you have it."

"Shit," Sarah started, "I mean, uh, 'scuse me, shoot! Shoot. That's the easiest thing I've had to deal with all day." She punched Meg's few requirements into the office's central terminal and waited while the ancient machine fired a short list back to her. "Look at that. _Tons_ of them. You sure you don't have any preferences other than beds, baths, and 'now open'?"

"Now that I think about it, you have anything at the back of the complex? Like, kinda away from people? Oh...and maybe furnished?" _'Assuming Randy doesn't kill me, he might not want to be stared at if he slums it and visits. And he might like a bed to sleep on.'_

Sarah couldn't suppress an appreciative laugh. "Okay, wait. This isn't a prank?"

"Serious call, I really need the place. Why?"

"Because most people like parking spaces and a view of the pool, that's all. Y'know, civilization?" She kept chuckling while she waited for the computer to narrow the list based on complex location. "Okay. Here we go. I'm down to four units."

"Well...of those four, since I'm not coming in to see them...which do you recommend?"

"Oh Lord. Shit, uh, I mean, shoot, I don't know. The ones over by me are the most recently renovated, how about that?" Sarah paused, now perplexed. "Wait. Where did you say you were that you're not coming out to see them?"

"Washington. Out by Seattle."

"Hell of a hike. I can run your credit and get back to you by the end of the day, sound good?"

"Look, I'm serious about renting." Meg was suddenly afraid Sarah would hang up on her, thinking the call was a joke. "I have friends...a friend...out there, and I'm a nurse." _'Okay, whoa there. That's half the truth, on both cases.'_ "I just don't want you to think that I'm some kind of scam. I need it soon – I'm going to be there in a couple of days."

Sarah paused, thinking, chewing the end of her pen. The pigeons had returned, the radio station she picked was crappy, and this was the most interesting thing to happen all day. "Nope. I think this'll work just fine. What's your name, again?"

One stellar credit check later, Sarah called Meg back to let her know she was set for a two bed, one bath unit, asked for her move-in date, and left a call back number, all in a long, disjointed voicemail message. She was calling from her unit, sipping whiskey and flipping channels, and realized far too late into the phone call she'd probably had too much to drink to call a potential renter back about an approval. _'Oh well. She didn't get on my ass about the first phone call, hopefully she's okay with this.'_ Nudging her cat out of her way, she sauntered to her fridge for a slice of cold pizza, hopping over the back of her sofa just in time for the football game to cut on.

* * *

><p>It was just as well that Meg didn't answer when Sarah called; she was in the middle of yet another heated discussion with Dave. It hadn't taken him long to put two and two together; Meg was planning yet another move. He could only assume Randy didn't know about it – if he did, Dave reasoned, Meg wouldn't have been setting it up on her own. <em>'There's no way he knows – he'd never let her drive on her own. And Lord knows she's driving; why would Meg bother getting an ID so she could get a plane ticket? I fucked up any chance of her staying in Seattle. There's no way she has a Washington ID. And I've got to catch her...he wraps soon, so she's on the move soon.'<em>

"You need to stop, or the phone's going to disappear, Dave. I'm fucking serious! You think you can just, what, stalk me, or check up on me, read the bill and call the numbers, or whatever the fuck you're doing, and I'm telling you-"

"Meg, I didn't call you to give you a lecture! Shut up for a minute!" Dave had to yell to get a word in edgewise; Meg was on a rip and was barely stopping to breathe.

Heaving, Meg's voice was ragged. "Fine." She gasped for air, dramatically. "What?"

Dave swallowed hard, paused, and swallowed again. "Meg...he wraps on the twenty-ninth. He leaves the same day; his flight lands at St. Louis at 3:30 AM – that's the 30th. You can take I-70 in and out, to pick him up. Half-hour on the road, one way. But you have to leave soon. It's a long drive."

It was Meg's turn to swallow hard and be still. Her breathing, finally quiet, evened out, and she held her phone away from her face, looking at it as though it might snap up and cut her. Eventually, she managed to find her voice, starting with Dave's name, then Randy's, and it seemed those were the only two words she knew. Dave finally hushed her, offering her the only explanation he had.

"Meg...Joe's an asshole, and I owe you an apology. This is the best I can give you, because I'm only guessing at what you set up. Try to be out there a day before him, so you can get settled in. If you need it, I'll buy you time with Randy. I won't tell him what you're doing, either."

Meg allowed herself half a smile; it was all that she'd let filter to the surface through the tar of her anger. "You still have a _long _way to go, Dave. A _long_ way. And you need to start by talking to Randy. He's beyond hurt."

"I know, Meg. And the more I listen to Joe back here..." Dave clamped his mouth shut, knowing he'd let far too much slip in that half-sentence.

"Oh, really." Meg's voice was hard-edged. "Well." She paused again. "What do I even say to that? I'm not surprised? I expected it?" A harsh laugh escaped her, then another, and soon she was on the edge of hysteria. "Oh, Dave. I don't even..." A dry chuckle, a long pause, and Dave knew Meg was losing her nerve. "I loved him," she whispered, "And he wouldn't even talk to me. I honestly didn't expect him to take me back. When I left, it was to protect him. I knew how bad Jackson could get – why would I set Joe up for that? I knew I was leaving forever, one way or another." Dave shuddered, but said nothing. "All I wanted...was for Joe to let me explain. Let me tell him I was sorry. He didn't have to stay." Her voice broke on the last word. "That's all I say anymore, isn't it? That I'm sorry?"

"Meg, look, I wasn't trying to upset you. I don't even know why I said that. _I'm_ sorry. I'm trying to make things right – as right as they can be – by helping you now. It doesn't make it perfect, but...does it make it a little better?"

He heard a small, staticky pop when the line disconnected, Meg never answering him.

* * *

><p>She tried to drop her phone on the bedside table, but her hands were shaking more than she realized. Her phone landed limply, and slid from the edge of the table down to the carpet below. Meg didn't see it, or didn't care, but she left it where it lay on the ground and ghosted her way across the room to her laptop. Picking it up and walking back to the bed, she let it fall from her fingers near the bottom of the mattress, curling herself around it and waiting, silently, for Randy to call.<p>

There was no need for her to make any sound – the skulls were filing the room, painted on the walls, and screaming: _'You're so fucking pathetic. A whoring, fucking – because that's what you do – fucking, pathetic idiot. Why are you running to him? He doesn't want you. Nobody wants you. Wait until he sees those files. You're going to wish you were dead. Joe was smart enough to walk away. Stop trying to drag everyone down with you. When are you going to give up?' _Their words turned to shrieks of laughter; their questions became more and more vile, and Meg couldn't shut the noise out. She bit into the sleeve of Randy's zip-up, feeling her throat constrict under the weight of their stares. They rubbed against her, crawling on her skin, and Meg went from trying to brush them away from her arms to trying to claw her own skin off, leaving red stripes in the wake of her fingernails.

"Please, don't call," Meg whispered, her eyes still crimped shut, "Because I'll pick up and they don't want me to. I shouldn't."

One hour passed, stretched into two, and she began to think Randy really wouldn't call. The skulls, still tittering, biting at the pens, rolling along the walls, had quieted somewhat, and Meg was comfortable letting herself stare blankly ahead at the corner of the dresser. The ring tone that emanated from her laptop startled her out of her daze, and every foggily-hallucinated shape that had been on the verge of leaving her scurried eagerly to crowd in, daring her to push the issue further. Eyes crushed closed, skin clammy, Meg slid a singular finger forward and tapped at the touch pad on the laptop, the screen popping to life accompanied by an obscenely bright and cheery glow. She opened her eyes and felt her pupils constrict in the severe light.

"Hey, Meg, sorry it took – Meg? Meggie? What happened? What's wrong?"

She tried to speak, then just to whisper, but nothing came out of her mouth. _'And all this because now I know what Joe is doing. Saying. I don't need to know exactly, but I know enough. I can't go to Saint Charles. I have to let go. And I have to go to Saint Charles because I can't let go.'_ Giving up and pressing her lips together in a thin line, Meg laid still on the bed, unable to will herself to move, care, or explain. Randy struggled to keep his panic at bay and think of anything he could do to get her to respond to him.

"Meggie?" He waited; she looked like she'd slipped past sleep and straight into a coma. "Meg?" Still nothing. _'What the fuck is this? This is like when we started in Tampa. Catatonic.' _Suddenly angry, but unsure what to direct it at, or even what the root was, he slammed his hands down on the table in his trailer, feeling the laptop jump between his palms. "Magdalena, _talk_ to me!"

Not a single fiber of Meg's body responded. Her eyes were glazed, her breathing was nearly non-existent, and her skin had taken on a greyish pallor. Randy was moving from panic into something colder and less-functional. _'I can beat the fuck out of the problem later. I need to help her now. What do I do?'_ "Okay. Okay, Meg. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to...you're scaring me. Can you talk?"

Silence. More silence, and an oppressive stillness that had the furthest reaches of his mind questioning whether or not he'd just watched her die.

"No? No. Okay. Uh...what happened today, what did you do?" Randy rubbed his hands over his neck; his body ached for a shower – for her, really, but filming had been confined to a warehouse, and stage lighting had quickly heated it well past oppressive – and now he was going to have to make up answers to his own questions, knowing Meg wasn't going to say a word. "You...did you go out?"

Nothing. Not even the faintest verbal hint. _'No. Not it, try again. Go faster. Or go get a car and go down there.'_ "No, okay. No, you didn't go out. Nobody came to the room, right, Meg? Nobody hurt you?" Again, nothing, and Randy had to believe that if she had been hurt, he would have gotten some kind of call from security. Her phone was the only thing left that Randy hadn't asked about. "Right, nobody hurt you. Not my Meg, right?" He dug for a smile, having to force it across his face. "You didn't go out, and nobody came in. What about your phone, Meg?"

A single, slow blink. Randy scrambled for his phone and dialed the only number he thought she might have called – Dave – watching Meg on the laptop the entire time.

"Medical and triage, this is-"

"Save it, you sorry piece of shit. What did you say to Meg? What did you do?"

Stunned into silence, Dave took several seconds to recover. His voice was small when he spoke, unsure, and – more than anything – afraid. "I...Randy, I don't know. We talked earlier. She was fine when we talked. What happened?"

"If I _knew_ what happened, I wouldn't be talking to you. She's laying on our bed in our room and she won't move, won't talk – nothing. So what did you do?" _'Our? Mine?'_

"Randy, I swear to God, I -" Dave stopped short, suddenly hearing the end of his conversation with Meg echo back through his mind. "No. No, wait. There was – oh, oh shit. At the very end."

"Make some fucking sense, Dave." Randy's voice had become a low growl; he hadn't taken his eyes off of Meg on the screen. She still hadn't moved; looked for all the world like she was a corpse, and now Dave was talking in circles. "Did you say something to her?"

"What is she doing?"

"No, asshole, _you_ don't get to worry about her now! I asked you a question, so fucking answer me! What did you _do_? Did you _say_ something? She looks like she's fucking _dead_, Dave!"

Dave flinched; he deserved every word and more, but hearing someone tell him after years of watching after Meg that she was no longer his – that the decision had been made for him, he simply wasn't involved anymore – tore at him. _'Like what Joe did to her. Replaced her.'_ "Okay. Randy, listen. We talked. Joe came up at the end, and she got upset. She was saying she shouldn't be surprised he's talking about her backstage, shit like that. I didn't think-"

"And who brought up Joe? You? How else would she know he's talking about her?" Randy windmilled his arms, as if simply by whirling his phone he could also lay his hands on Dave. _'And by the way, thank you oh so much for giving me a new reason to pound Joe. Even after all this time, he can still wreck her.'_ Randy felt a deep-seated twinge that somehow, if he had done more or been clearer, then she wouldn't have been as affected by Dave – or Joe. _'And that's bullshit, because she spent the whole weekend keeping you at arm's length. What were you gonna do, Orton, demand that she be in love with you?'_

"I fucked up, Randy. I'm sorry." Dave's tone was flatly exhausted. "What do you need me to do?"

"I don't know, Dave! I don't know! She won't move, she won't talk to me, and I had to guess it was a phone call that upset her. What the fuck were you thinking, saying _anything_ about Joe to her?" Still as stone, Meg laid on the bed, trying her best to look through the screen and not at it, unable to escape the hissing images on Randy's arms and in the air around her. She forced herself to blink again, and waited for her eyes to stop swimming and refocus. The motion caught Randy's attention and he cut the line off on Dave, who promptly called back – and was just as promptly ignored.

"Meg?" Randy was cautious, trying not to startle her back into whatever mental hole she'd just crawled out from. "Kiddo? I'm here, it's okay." _'Don't say that shit, Orton, it's not okay.'_ Shaking his head, he tried again. "Meg, I mean..."

She slid her hand forward, over the touch pad, and paused. "Sorry, Ran. I can't, tonight." Her voice was barely audible, and her hand had started to shiver where she held it.

"Meggie, please. I can come down, I only have one more day to film, my plane ticket can be moved back. It's all okay. I can be there. Tell me what you need."

Unceremoniously, Meg ended the call. Randy dialed back, but Meg didn't open the line, instead just watching the small avatar of Randy pop up over and over again on the display. All the while, her phone rang from the floor. And, all the while, Meg never moved from the foot of the bed, bathed in a sickly fluorescent glow from the screen, feeling the edges of her hallucinations curl against her almost protectively, whispering that she had done the right thing, it would all be fine now.

Shakily, she pushed off the end of the bed and went to the balcony, shutting the door firmly behind her. _'Guess I know why I saved the last cigarette. Not a bad time to have it.' _With much effort and a complete lack of coordination, Meg managed to light it, enjoying the rush the nicotine gave her with her first deep breath. She inspected the lines on her arms while she smoked, daring to laugh at her own ineptitude. _'Little red marks. How very attention-seeking, Meg. If you're going to do shit like that, make it permanent.'_

Permanent. The strangeness of the word struck her; nothing in her life had been permanent. She'd always moved from place to place, even taking a job that refused to allow her to sink roots anywhere specific. Loneliness had never particularly bothered Meg, but inasmuch as her jangled brain would allow her to think of 'company,' she'd become overly-used to having Randy around her – and overly-quickly – to the point that his absence had clearly thrown her over an edge she didn't realize she was still standing snugly against. "I asked Randy to commit to his film. Dave is actually helping me commit to the apartment. Meg...figure it out. Figure it out." She exhaled coolly, trying to steady herself into understanding the implications of her decision. "Call Dave. That's safe. He owes you. He said so."

Turning to go back inside and call, Meg suddenly crashed backwards into the railing of the balcony, nearly sending herself over. Leaning against the glass door, a slimy, bloody smear in his wake, was Jackson. His pen protruding from his leg, dust from the airbag coating his face like a powdery mask, the edges of the hole in his chest dripping and moist, he looked as though he'd simply stepped from the car, rode the elevator, and let himself into her bedroom.

_'Go if you want, kitten. You're taking me with you.'_

Meg dropped down behind the chaise, not feeling her cigarette connect with her thigh until the burn had settled in deeply. She stayed there, her head resting against the back of the lounge, waiting until she was sure she saw nothing, heard nothing – just the persistent ringing of her phone and chiming of Skype, all in a digital glow. Peeking around the legs of the chaise, she confirmed what she suspected: Jackson was gone, the skulls were gone, the pens were gone, and only her rattled nerves remained.

It was only the oozing welt in her thigh that reminded her any of it might have been real at all.


	13. Thanatosis

Randy sat, stood, paced, raged – couldn't quite figure out what to do with himself or what not to do with himself. The logical part of his brain screamed that he had to stop, had to make it through just one more day, and then he could go back to Blaine and to Meg, to figure it all out. And, while he had no difficulty convincing himself of the rationality of his plan to meet obligations and _then_ meet Meg, it was harder to force himself to believe she'd be alright overnight, or that she would still be there in the morning.

His phone rang again and again, Dave calling each time. Exasperated, he finally picked up, not expecting Dave to jump on the line before he could get a word in edgewise.

"Look! Look. I know that all of this is my fault. All I can tell you is just to get on the plane."

Randy pulled the phone away from his face and fixed it with a strained look. _'The fuck, Dave? What?'_ "Explain, Dave. I'm giving you ten seconds."

"I don't know what she's doing. I don't know what she's planning. I just know she needs you to get on the plane."

"Whatever you're lying about, fuck yourself." Randy's patience had evaporated; he saw each of Dave's verbal dodges as a further attempt to keep him away from Meg. "You told her I got on a plane once already, remember?"

"I know! I know. Randy, if I knew what she was doing, I would tell you. I don't. I swear to God, I don't. She didn't tell me." _'And how much do I tell you, without upsetting her? Why are we all keeping secrets? Wait, no – we're doing that because we're idiots.'_

"Dave, no offense, but fuck you. Why would I believe you anymore?"

"Because I was wrong. And I'm trying to fix it now, but I can't if you don't just _get on the goddamned plane."_ Short of pushing Randy into a seat before takeoff, he had no idea what else could be done.

"Then you need to tell me what you do know. Otherwise, I'm leaving for the hotel now. Ten more seconds."

Dave exhaled shakily, not knowing what would be over Meg's line – or even if Meg had lines, anymore. "I called her earlier because I thought she'd tell me what she was doing next. I knew your film was wrapping soon." He scrambled for plausible theories. "Sometimes, Meg just...I wanted her to let me know where she was. What she was planning...anything."

"You don't have the right, Dave. Not anymore."

"And you can stop telling me that! You're not her-"

"Watch yourself." Randy's voice could have slit a throat.

"Okay. Okay. I asked her if she was leaving." _'Half the truth. Sort of.'_ "She didn't say anything specific, but it sounded like she knew you were going home."

"That doesn't make any sense, Dave. I never told her that. Try again. You're a shitty liar."

_'Son of a bitch. They really are...whatever they are, they're talking. Too much, seriously.'_ "Fuck...Randy...if I tell you what she's doing, you're just going to worry."

"Like I'm not worried now?" His voice roared through the walls of his trailer; outside, other lights came on.

"I know. And you've heard me say before, you have to trust Meg. This time...really...please just get on the plane. She didn't tell me _exactly_ what she's doing, I swear! I just know she needs you to go home. And knowing her, it's probably not worth it to stop at the hotel."

The line hummed between them, part tension and part nerves. Dave continued pushing. "If I'm wrong, I'll fly out there myself and find her. I'll fix it."

Randy snorted. "Weren't you the one who told me you can't _fix_ things?"

Tired of having his efforts thrown back in his face, Dave snapped back at Randy. "Okay, and what's your idea? You don't want to listen to me – and I don't blame you – but you don't have a plan, you don't know what to do, you don't know what she's doing either, so...what? What, Randy? What do you want?"

Silent again, Randy's mind was startlingly blank. "I don't...I dunno, Dave. I want it back the way it was."

Whether that meant the way it was days, weeks, or months ago, neither man knew – but both understood.

* * *

><p>Meg didn't sleep that night; she was too busy testing the door and re-testing it, seeing if she could let herself out without being seized upon by her dead ex, flying apparitions, or non-existent writing utensils. It took several tries before she made it to the elevator; even then, seeing Jackson inside caused her to give serious consideration to taking the stairs down to the parking garage. Instead, she got into the boxcar, suitcase banging into the raw spot on her thigh, twisting her hair roughly around her fingers as she dropped toward the lobby. <em>'This is the worst idea. No. This is the answer to the worst idea.'<em> Following a hurried checkout, she threw her suitcase in the back of her car and checked her watch.

"I have to go, Ran," she whispered, turning the engine over, "But I promise, this isn't like last time."

Backing out of the parking spot, she paused before shifting into drive, looking at Jackson in the rear-view mirror as he leaned over her suitcase, rolling his eyes at her, dripping down the side of it. "At least...it shouldn't be."

_'Keep telling yourself that, kitten. You'll come to me, one way or another.'_

Meg shivered, turned the heat up, and pulled out of the garage, headed due southeast, vowing to call the rental office in the morning and pray that she could, with less than a day's notice, still get an apartment.

* * *

><p>The next day was a series of fits and starts for Randy. The resort called him and let him know his room reservation had been canceled, thanked him for his stay, and asked him to please call if there was anything else he needed. Once he established that no, neither the concierge nor anyone else in the building knew where Meg went, only that she had checked out at an absurdly early hour, he resigned himself to Dave's instruction: He would, after all, just get on the plane.<p>

His call was followed by a series of takes and shoots so uninspired that the director finally threw his hands in the air and called it complete, sending Randy off to pack his things in his trailer and wait for a car to take him to the airport early. _'I'd rather sit there than here. 'There' is distracting.'_ Brushing off his co-star's phone number for what felt like the tenth time that day, it took every ounce of control in him not to snap at her that he was seeing someone. _'But I'm not. Why lie to myself? I don't know where my girl is, and she's not mine anyway.'_ Out of desperation, he tried calling Meg, and braced himself for the line to go to voicemail.

One of the few practical things he'd gotten Meg to do while at the resort was ask her to change her voicemail message from a generic inbox recording to one that was personal. She'd teased him; saying it was just a ploy for him to hear her voice when she was too lazy to pick up the phone, and he'd readily agreed. They'd been laying in bed together when she recorded it, and he could hear himself jokingly telling her to make sure to say his name, be nice, and tell him hello, all while it played out in his ear.

_Hi, you've reached Meg – Ran, stop! I'm going to – you've reached Magdalena Nechayev, I can't answer your call right now, but – shh! I'm trying to say hi to you, now stop! - but please leave a message and your – Ran, I know I have your number, hush – and your number after the tone, and I'll call you back as soon as I can. Thanks! Bye!_

The message ended with her giggling, and he could remember pulling her playfully down onto the bed, telling her she had to record it over again, but they'd never gotten around to it. _'That was before we went to the pool...right before dinner, I think.' _The tone sounded, a dental drill's worth of noise, and Randy hoped the exhaustion wasn't too evident in his voice.

"Hey...Meggie. Kiddo, I...I don't know what to...I'm going to get on the plane, but not for a while. Dave told me I had to – fuck knows why I'm listening to him anymore, right? Whatever you're doing, Meg...why couldn't you tell me? I can't keep worrying like this, not knowing what's happening to you...last night was..." He inhaled sharply, not realizing how close he'd come to telling her the truth, that he thought he'd lost her, still wasn't convinced he hadn't, wouldn't know what to do if he did. "Meg, please, just call me. Or if you still have that text message I sent, use that. I don't know. I just...let me know you're okay? Please? Meggie, I..."

The line beeped again, telling him he'd run out of time for his recording, and unceremoniously disconnected him. He stared down at his phone before he closed his hand around it, and unconsciously reached up for her medallion, remembering too late that he'd given it back to her. His fingers felt nothing but the thin fabric of his shirt, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. _'Just go home, Randy. Do what she said, and go home.' _Cars and buildings ticked by outside the windows as he hurtled toward the airport.

* * *

><p>Discomfort turned to agitation, and he jumped hard enough to drop his phone in the footwell when it rang. Scrambling to pick it up, his greeting was breathless, and Remy had to ask him several times to slow down while he explained what was going on.<p>

"Mon dieu...Randy...you have to tell her to slow down. Merde. She will be the end of you if she keeps on."

"I know, Remy, I know. I feel like there's a point to this. She said something about surprises, so I have to hope it's related, it's good, just...anything that isn't New Orleans."

"Jamais deux sans une troisieme fois. Never twice without a third time." Remy laughed bitterly. "Maybe now she will be done? Stay in one place, I am saying."

"I thought I gave her a reason, Remy. Maybe I just don't understand enough. Did my card go through for Oechsner?"

"Oui! Oui, c'est tout. That's all. They are ready to release the files, but...we both know your Meg did not sign those forms." His voice was both conspiratorial and parental, and Randy didn't mind being called out.

"No, she didn't. I didn't have a way to get back down there, and let's be honest. Look at what she's doing. I need answers, Remy. However I get them. She told me I could look, so...I'm looking."

"Bien, bien. I would have done the same. Mais, listen to me." Remy's voice became flatly serious. "You are not used to these things. I do not mean Meg, I mean the nature of my work. The accident was...violent. The pictures are not limited to Meg. And the hospital reports are...extreme. Severe. Unpleasant. You will not..." He trailed off. "I do not want to put you off – non, non. I do not think I could put you off. But I do not want you to change your opinion of her, either."

"Remy. It would take more than this. Trust me."

"If you say so, monsieur. I will say, I understood." He cleared his throat. "You can expect them later tonight. It will take some time for me to compile her records. I must send them in several attachments."

"Is there a right way to go through it? Like...a way that makes sense?"

Remy's laugh was explosive. "Makes sense! Oh, Randy. Merde. Nothing about what happened to her makes sense. You must ask, what do you want to know."

"Okay...I want to know what happened in the accident." He paused, thinking. "Then, I want to know what they did to her at the hospital. When she first came in isn't so important. I mean...once she was awake. Why she's so afraid. Or...what she's afraid of." _'And that's not in those files. That's in Meg's head.'_

"Bien. I will send the files in the order you will need to read them. Adieu, Randy."

"Talk to you – well, no. I'll write you when I get them."

* * *

><p>Meg, after a fitful nap on the side of the road, finally called Sarah back. She had another ten hours to go in the car, and from the middle of a highway surrounded by corn fields, her radio produced only static. Desperate for any sort of human contact, tired of Jackson's hands trailing through her hair as she drove, she dialed eagerly.<p>

"Time Centre, this is Sarah, how can I-"

"Sarah!" Meg was over-enthusiastic, thrilled to have anyone else's voice in her ear. The skulls gritted their teeth together like snake-rattles, and it was a struggle to keep the car in a straight line. "It's Meg! Please tell me I'm not too late to get that apartment?"

"Shit, girl, I was beginning to wonder if you were gonna call me at all." She smiled, clicking the TV off in the office. "When ya gonna be here?"

"Ten hours? Or so? I'm not really sure what state I'm in..."

"Oh Lord...okay, well, we're gonna be closed in ten hours. Er, the office is. I'm fine with you getting here after; the place is furnished, so all you need is key pickup, right?"

_'This is too perfect; where's the catch?'_ "Uh...are you sure? It's not like you _know_ me." Meg puzzled through the woman's response to her completely illogical schedule.

"Look...you wouldn't be driving out here from Washington if you didn't want it, right? And your phone reception sucks; you _sound_ like you're in a car in the middle of nowhere."

"Fair. Where do I get my key?"

"My apartment. I'm the complex manager, and I'm three doors over from you."

_'Oh, what the fuck is this...Randy would kill me.'_ "Okay. See you...when I see you."

Meg tried to drop her phone in the center console; feeling Jackson's breath sticky on her neck it was a good excuse for her to swing her elbow at his presence. The phone bounced out as rapidly as it dropped in, jumping into the side of her leg, directly into the raw spot on her thigh. Meg jolted, and grabbed at her leg, digging her finger into the wound as she did. The harder she clawed at it, the smaller Jackson seemed to become, so she kept working her fingers over the flesh, not caring about the deeply bloody stain she was also working into her jeans as she moved.

* * *

><p>Randy paced the airport like a caged animal, being both an irritant and an intimidating presence in the boarding area. Drinks at the airport bar hadn't helped him, neither had the repeated phone calls to Meg – all unanswered and immediately to voicemail – so he took the next logically illogical step, and called Joe, praying that he would answer. <em>'I need a reason to jump. Any reason.'<em>

"And what do you want, cocksucker?" Joe, dismissive and bored, came on the line far faster than Randy anticipated.

_'And there's my jump.'_ "You _might_ want to keep your mouth shut about her. I have enough reasons to face-fuck you with a block of concrete as it is."

"Still such a bitch, Orton. Pussy-whipped, now, but still a little bitch."

"You gonna be saying that when I'm breaking you?"

"Threats from a broken little piece of shit like you? Right. Remind me to be afraid. By the way, how's it feel plowing something I warmed up for you?"

"Walk up to me and say that shit." Randy's tone flattened considerably; Joe had aimed for and struck the one spot he knew he could solidly score at.

"Aww, poor guy. She hasn't even given it up for you, has she? Enjoying the blue balls?"

"You're _done_, Joe. Leave her alone." Randy cut the line, the conversation having done nothing for his mood other than worsen it. _'And still two hours before I board. And that didn't help. Where are you, Meg? What did you do?'_

* * *

><p>Nearly twelve hours later, another nap and half a pack of cigarettes later, Meg pulled into the parking lot of the Time Centre apartment complex, trying to direct herself toward the rental office. <em>'I didn't ask her where I was meeting her. She didn't say. This feels off...something's wrong.' <em>From her position in the parking lot, Meg could see a note taped over the lock on the door, and even though Jackson's hands were closed firmly around her throat, she reached for the handle of the door and let herself out, trying desperately to look more balanced and coherent than she felt. Her right leg was ready to go out from under her from the effort of driving; falling down on the sidewalk was not the impression she wanted to make on anyone watching her.

_'Forgot to tell you where to go. Building 14, #C16. -Sarah'_

Meg sighed in gratitude; her hands flew up to her medallion and pulled at it urgently. _'Get a key, get to the airport. You're not done yet, Meg. Dave was right, you should have left sooner. And fuck Dave for being right about anything.'_

Driving the length of the property, Meg marveled at the solitude of the back lots and buildings. _'There really isn't anyone back here. Maybe this will be okay.'_ Once she determined the floors were organized by letter – and 'C' obviously meant top – she dragged herself up the necessary flights of stairs and limped down the hall toward door number 16. After a few knocks, Meg was beginning to give up hope. She turned to go, but heard a thumping from inside the apartment that held her at the door. A cat yowled, something glass upended, and Meg began to smile. _'That's got to be her. Minus the desk.'_

The door sprang open, and clad in a bra and boxers, highball in hand, stood her apartment manager. "Shit, girly. I make an entrance, don't I?" Sarah scrubbed at her tilted ponytail, blinking in the hard hallway light. "Here's the key, now get on. We'll sign the lease tomorrow, it's late and you're prolly – hey, your leg?"

Meg's hand shot to cover her thigh. "It's nothing. Had to change a tire, and I'm a klutz."

"Ri-ight. You're a klutz like I'm an AA sponsor. Here's your key, head on down. You're in twelve. I'll drop by and get you some start-up info later." She tipped her glass up in a half-cheer, and gently shut the door. The cat yowled again, and Meg outright giggled. _'This is going to be unreal. I could stay here; she's like me.'_ She opened her door only enough to throw her suitcase inside, not caring what the apartment looked like. _'Time to go. One more call.'_

She dialed Dave while she sped down I-70; ignoring his questions was easy. Getting any coherent information out of him proved to be a much more difficult task. He kept telling her she couldn't go to meet Randy at the gate; Meg kept telling him she understood that but still needed to know where, generally, to meet him. Dave's information from corporate was minimalist in nature, but he managed to give her enough to allow her to ballpark her destination. Parking, watching, all she could do was wait.

* * *

><p>The turbulence was nauseating; Randy hated flying anyway – too noisy, too crowded, too many people asking for photos or trying to pass him phone numbers he didn't want – and it was a disaster at baggage claim. He hadn't brought much, but what he had brought took forever to fall from the plane to the belt. Dragging his two suitcases behind him, he sludged his way through the thin crowds, not knowing what he would do once he made it outside but knowing he needed air instead of the hollow, claustrophobic plastic of the airport.<p>

Meg caught him in her high-beams the moment he crossed in front of her, causing him to slam to a stop in the middle of the road, drop his bags, and begin a desperate backpedal. He braced for a car to hit him – and in truth, he was ready for it to be over, was ready to stop fighting, and then he felt two frigid arms around him. The cold was enough to sear throughhis jacket, the weight of the perfume and stale cigarette that followed forced his head to bow low enough to graze her shoulders, and then he knew: this time, she had come to him.


	14. Haves and Have Nots

Joe couldn't place his finger exactly on what had prompted him to respond to Randy the way he did. Legitimate dislike existed between the two men, and Randy's hostile tone hadn't helped things, but, truth be told, Joe was starting to reconsider his position on Meg. _'Old habits die hard, for everyone.'_

Things started out well enough; his fiancee had been only too thrilled to hear from him, had doted on him lovingly and adoringly after surgery, even through most of recovery – but now that he was preparing to go back on the road, she'd started staying out late again. His credit cards left his wallet for days, only showing up when he commented on their absence. _'The closer I get to a hundred percent, the closer she gets to the way she was.'_ He'd caught himself, more than a few times, thinking of Meg.

While he'd long since cleared her things from his drawers and closets, there were a few shirts of his that she'd slept in that he'd never washed, still heavy with her scent, that he'd squirreled away. Lately, he was taking them out more often, fingering the ragged hems, thinking of the nights she'd spent in his bed, the times he'd simply brushed the fabric out of the way and she'd come to him, easily and without pretense, eager to touch and be touched, but without a sole demand or expectation of her own. _'She wanted what I wanted, whatever it was. Did I even know?'_ Now, the woman in his bed left smears of makeup on the pillowcases, and her perfume was oppressive, jasmine lingering harshly between her thighs where Meg had only ever been softness and strangely, warmth. _'The only thing warm, ever,'_ and every memory down that path forced Joe to bite back a strange sound that wanted to force its way from his throat and into his bedroom.

_'My bedroom. Not ours, not hers, just mine. Alone.'_ It occurred to Joe he'd always called it 'ours' when Meg was with him, even though she left no trace other than a vague aroma of roses and the occasional stray sock. With his fiancee, it felt as though she was simply renting space. Showing up and going away as she pleased, and almost bored with his presence – resentful that he would be leaving, to be sure – but only because she wouldn't be the one sending him away, it would be his employer calling for him. He wanted to convince himself that it was simply cold feet, that he should drop to his knee, offer up the ring he'd taken back, and close the chapter, but he couldn't do it. _'It might help if I didn't keep the ring in the same place I keep Meg's shirts.'_

Jealousy washed over him as he looked out across the bay; his shirts were Meg's and Meg's shirts were almost certainly now Randy's, especially given her penchant for sleeping without even so much as a pair of panties on but still feigning an interest in decency. _'She used to crack me up with that – basically naked, so why bother with wearing anything at all?'_ Again, he forced down memories of slender thighs and ghost-pale skin, instead trying to think of every time she'd woken him up by laying her cold hands too high or low on his body – but the memory brought only a smile to his face. _'This one...she only touches me if she wants something.'_

His fiancee stepped through the back door as he mused, dripping salt water and shedding sand across the sunroom. It irritated Joe, though he and Meg had made the same mess dozens of times, usually throwing a beach towel under them as they collapsed to the floor before their afternoon ended in unhurried lovemaking. Now...he wanted to find a broom to clean the grit. His fiancee's fingers traced up his arms, paying no mind to his tattoo, not bothering to trail through the ends of his hair, and trying to duck him down into a kiss. He acquiesced, but not without bitterness in his throat. _'What did I do? And what am I doing?'_

* * *

><p>It took several obnoxious honks from passing taxis before Randy was willing to let go of Meg enough to pull her and his luggage back toward her car, still stunned by Meg's presence. It wasn't til they were both in her car and she'd moved it well away from the terminal that he was able to find any words – and they were, simply, "Drive. Anywhere, just drive."<p>

_'Thirty minutes, Meg. Just hold it together for thirty minutes.'_ She was speeding, she was practically vibrating from a combination of tension and exhaustion, her jeans were sticking to her thigh, and she was spending more time watching Jackson roll in convulsive laughter on the back seat of the car than was probably safe for highway speeds – none of which was lost on Randy. It occurred to him that he hadn't asked where they were going, but he also knew he didn't care. The spotty, edge-neighborhoods of Saint Charles turned to the downtown area, and Meg made a sharp right into the entrance of the apartment complex.

_'And only a few blocks from the cemetery, kitten. See you soon.'_Jackson's fetid breath licked across Meg's cheek, and she had to struggle not to retch while she drove to her building at the back.

"Meg...kiddo, I don't understand. You could have told me...shit, you could have stayed with me..." Randy's voice was tired, confused, but not at all upset as she slipped the car into park and leaned across the center console to wrap her arms around him again.

"I know. But I didn't want you to say no, either. This way..." She shrugged. "I'll wear you out, Ran. I need somewhere to go when that happens. So...here's home." He looked at her gently, playing with the last word she'd said, debating how far he could push them given how tired they both were and opting to let it lay. Her grip was awkward and she could only manage a minute before needing to fall back into her seat. "C'mon. You get to see it the same time I do. Unless you want to go to your place."

His eyes fell to the sticky bloodstain on her pants, and he couldn't help himself from reaching toward it. Meg blocked his hand, pushing it back to his lap.

"Meg, what'd you-" She was out of the car before he finished his sentence, struggling to get his bags out of the back. Randy sighed, pushed his door open, and stretched his legs out into the cold pre-dawn air. His back twinged; the plane hadn't done much for it, but he hoped Meg would.

* * *

><p>The walk up the stairs was a trek of mutual support, easy smiles, each pulling or urging the other as much as could be done with the combination of thin sleep, heavy luggage, and wracking pain. She passed him the key and stepped back from the door, waiting. Randy didn't move, just looked at her, a half-smile on his face. "Here's home?"<p>

"Yeah, Ran. Here's home." Meg's smile was unreserved, and she reached for his hand without realizing she'd done it.

_'With me. Tell me you want me to sell my house and stay here; the sign goes up today. Tell me you want to move in with me, we get back in the car now.' _He pulled her through the door with him, stopping just on the other side of the threshold, pulling her back against him. "I'm going to guess it came this way?" The décor was decidedly unlike her; nearly entirely beige and nondescript.

Meg shrugged. "As long as it came with a bed for us, it could have been bright pink. Besides," she tilted her head up toward him, "We can fix it. I get the feeling the landlord won't mind."

_'She said we. We! She might actually...stay.'_ His arms closed around her, sliding down over her hips, until his hand grazed her thigh and she flinched. _'And _we _need to talk about that. That whole night, actually.' _"Meg...c'mere. Let's find our bedroom. Lay down. I missed this."

In the bedroom – _'Our bedroom? He said ours.' _– Meg pushed Randy's jacket back over his arms, letting it fall to the floor. A streaky dawn had started to pull over the eastern horizon as Randy reached for the front of Meg's jeans, and she inhaled shakily when he pulled her forward, her hips colliding with his. Her hands crept up the plane of his stomach, under his shirt, and Randy's breathing became equally shaky as she lifted the fabric over him and cast it on the floor. His fingers worked feverishly at the button of her jeans, and she slipped her own shirt over her head before pressing herself against him, pinning his hands in place between them. _'Meg, no. He deserves better than you.'_ Before she could speak, tell him to lay down, try to sleep, let her work at his back, Randy had freed his hands, sliding them up her waist, stopping to run his thumb over the scar on her ribs. His eyes hadn't left her body; they darted across the surface of her skin like stones skipped on water.

Gently, he led her back, waiting for her to stop him, tell him to let go, anything – but no words came. When he felt the edge of the bed behind him, he sat, pulling her at him, still waiting for some sort of flinch. Meg stood before him, her hands at the waist of her jeans, finishing what Randy had started, sliding them down her legs and hissing as they crossed the welt her cigarette had created and her fingers had deepened.

"Meggie...I know you're – we're – tired, but...what happened?" He reached up to toy with the strap of her bra, gently twisting it around his fingers, trying to avoid brushing against her leg as he urged her into his lap. She settled in so immediately that he laid back and pulled her over him, trying for as much contact as she'd allow.

"You're gonna think I'm crazy if I tell you." Meg's smile was half-ashamed and her voice was low; he could see her start to retreat into whatever scant respite her mind could offer. She slid across the length of him and down to his side, stroking the back of her hand down the side of his face, along his neck, trying desperately to distract him from continuing the line of questioning.

"Meg..."It was Randy's turn to let his voice slip low. "I won't. And we need to -"

Impulsively, she leaned up as though to kiss him, face-to-face, her medallion dangling between them. His words caught short, and he instinctively held his breath, waiting for her to close the last inch between them.

"Ran...please. We can – we will – but right now...please...can I just have this?" She dropped her head, dodging his lips, gently trailing hers down his neck as she spoke. "Just this. I missed you."

He pulled her in further, knowing their conversation could wait. The mark on her thigh, the irritated red lines on her arms – all of it would be different in full daylight and after sleep. Randy shifted away from Meg only enough to take his pants off, stretch, and silently will her hands to his lower back – and she was only too glad to oblige before falling asleep tangled over him, his fingers threaded through her hair in a heavy grasp. Sleep was a relief, sleep in the same bed, after so many days apart, was like an opiate.

* * *

><p>Sarah pounded on Meg's door a few short hours later; trying to get her attention and get the necessary paperwork signed. Randy groaned at the noise; his back felt amazing thanks to Meg's ministrations, but the ache between his legs was intolerable. <em>'If I could touch her – like that – just once. Just once...'<em> Groping for his shirt, he managed to get himself presentable before going to her door.

Sarah was stunned into silence once the door swung open; she'd expected Meg but not the giant man who stood, half-dressed, in front of her. "Shit. Meg didn't tell me she had company. Here, uh, these are for her." Sarah passed the stack of paperwork over to Randy, who was not nearly awake enough to cope with the amount of information being thrown at him. "I'll, uh...I'll let you get back to it." She leaned forward and pulled the door shut for him, letting out a small hum of appreciation as soon as the latch clicked. _'Damn! I knew there was a reason I rented to her. Maybe he's got a friend.'_

Randy locked the door and ditched his shirt as soon as the door closed, not having hear Meg pad up behind him. Normally, he would have startled if anyone else had wrapped their arms around him from behind, but with her, he simply pressed his hands over hers, pulled her hands up over his chest, and waited for her to pull against him the way he knew she would, feeling only thin bits of her cotton panties and bra covering her against him.

"Landlord?"

"I think so. She left a bunch of paperwork. And made a really weird noise."

"Hmm." Meg began to pull him back toward their bedroom, turning him as she went. "Well...I can sign my life over later. For right now...back to bed. I don't think I'm done with you yet."

Randy felt himself break into a smile, and he lifted Meg up into his arms, earning a squeak of amusement as he moved. _'Meggie...I'm not done with you either.'_ From the counter, his cellphone chirped an email alert, and it crossed his mind that it might be Remy – but he ignored it in favor of moving toward the bed, his chilled bundle of roses in his arms and about to be under his sheets. _'This now, takeout later, and I don't think I'm ever leaving. Early retirement.'_

The rest of their day was spent lounging on each other in bed, him sporadically answering the door for delivery, her figuring out local maps and TV stations, and both of them catching up between each other. Meg worked every knot and crimp out of his back; Randy parsed every snarl from her windblown and slept-on hair. Even without the added velvet of alcohol settling over her, Meg was completely at ease. Still shirtless, his tattoos hadn't spoken, Jackson hadn't made an appearance – the empty space in Meg's world was filled, and there was no room for delusions or creeping paranoia.

_'Maybe...maybe this is the right decision, for once,'_ Meg mused. _'It feels right. And he feels good.'_


	15. Paperwork

All the love in the world to the amazing Nattiebroskette - without the plot checks, grammar checks, and 2AM reality checks, so much of this story wouldn't exist. If you haven't checked out her opus, "Shielded", please do - it's an amazing work in its own right, and well worth the read.

A small bridge chapter here; we shall have another wall of text immediately following. Thanks to all who have read, reviewed, favorited, followed, and generally committed to Randy, Joe, and Meg along with me. Finally, a warm story-welcome to jamie. .9 - please feel free to drop me a message if there's anything you'd like to see, want to ask, or just feel like chatting about!

* * *

><p>Randy's instinct was right, the email was from Remy. He didn't get a chance to look at his phone until Meg was well and thoroughly buried in the shower later that night, and was shocked to see the volume of material that had landed in his inbox. <em>'That either means it's going to help me understand, or it's going to make it that much worse.'<em> He opened the first message and began to read.

_'Bonjour, Randy. This first file is the police report. This is technical data entirely, but will help you understand the facts of the car crash itself. -Remy.'_

With one ear to the shower, Randy attempted opening the file on his phone. He could practically hear the circuits straining, but a file eventually did open. Squinting at the small text, he began to read:

_'...single-vehicle accident on I-90 southbound, with the vehicle crossing into the median near Toledano St...The driver of the vehicle, having a BAC of .24, appeared to lose control of the vehicle at speeds at/over 85MPH...the vehicle began to fishtail, struck the center concrete median going southbound, approaching Toledano. The impact caused full frame collapse of the vehicle, partially ejecting the driver through the driver's side front window. Steering column was found lodged in the sternum of the driver. The vehicle, following impact with the concrete median, began to roll down the interstate, passing further concrete median segments and coming to rest on its roof over 800 ft. from the initial impact. Full airbag deployment occurred, with failures. The passenger appeared to have partial ejection from the vehicle due to a failure of the side curtain airbag – passenger front window was missing/broken, glass was embedded in passenger's head and scalp. Both driver and passenger had multiple debris impacts within vehicle...highway was closed pending accident investigation and involvement of coroner, fire department, local/state police, medical services...'_

Randy was only able to read the report in pieces; it was stomach-turning. Airbag failures, the steering column, Meg hurtling down the interstate for 800 feet, helpless, being flung around the inside of the car, whatever a debris impact was supposed to be...he could feel nausea wrapping itself around his throat. Randy made it to the sink in time to heave forward, but nothing came. "Jesus...Meg..." He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. "You _lived._" The water in the bathroom was still running; he was sure he still heard her moving under it, could smell her soap in the air, and so he reached for his phone again. Scrolling past the rest of the text, he came to a series of photos, and promptly buried his face back into the sink.

In one, Jackson's chest was caved in, completely, by the steering column. The airbag stuck out from the hole in his chest like a wilted flower. In another, what he assumed was the side of Meg's head was visible, blood pouring out of her hair and over her face. _'That explains why. The side of her head? The top? Went through the window.'_ Jackson's leg, with a pen sticking out of it, chunks of broken glass from the windows across his lap. Frame after frame of the outside of the car, compressed and angular, looking like a wad of foil that had been painted and stepped on. Meg's collarbone, bright white and smeared in red, against the darkness of her shirt, sticking out of her body like an odd-angled coat hook. Another, of what he assumed was Meg's leg, disappearing between – or into – the dashboard and her seat.

Randy kept coming back to the pen. _'Multiple debris impacts...okay...her head, her leg...his leg?'_ Something wasn't adding up for him. _'Meg kept saying I'll find out, I'll hate her once I know – what does that mean? What does that have to do with this?' _The shower finally turned off, and Randy couldn't scramble for his phone fast enough. Meg was out the door, bouncing, jovial, and then suddenly terror-stricken at the look on Randy's face.

"Ran...what? What's wrong?" She nearly dropped her towel in her haste to get to him at the sink.

Randy struggled for words. On the one hand, there she was – alive – miraculously, by the two accounts he saw on his phone – _'And who knows what else is in the rest of those files?' -_ but yet, there she was, with some of the pieces of her story missing. The impulsive, forgetful, irritable behavior was making sense, at least – her head had flown through a window; thankfully without the car landing on her and crushing her in the process. It all still left Randy further confused than enlightened. _'Meggie...what aren't you telling me? What do you know that you're not telling me?' _He took a steadying breath before trying to speak.

"Kiddo...Remy sent me the reports."

Meg's world turned to a high-pitched squeal; her vision tunneled out and she felt the room spin around her. Pushing back from Randy, skidding along the edge of the counter, Meg went back into the bathroom and promptly threw up in a near-mirror copy of what Randy had done only moments earlier. Randy followed her, but couldn't bring himself to touch her.

"Meg, you need to tell me what happened. I have the accident report, I have the photos, and I have questions."

Her eyes were hollow when she looked up at him, panting, from where she had dropped to the floor. "Randy, I told you...you would hate me. And now you know."

"No! Meg, no! I don't know anything. I know you almost died. I know you keep running. I know Jackson's...none of this makes sense." She could see his heart breaking in his eyes. "Meg, help me. Please, help me understand. I don't think I even have to read the rest of the reports, do I?"

Still clutching her towel to her, looking piteously up at Randy, Meg felt her world collapsing in around her. "No." Her voice came quietly, but was even and flat. "No, Ran, you don't. The accident...Jackson..."

"What, Meg? What?" Randy's voice was getting tighter and tighter. _'What...who...was I chasing around? When she left, this was what she was planning? This was her brilliant idea, and it almost got her killed?'_ "Meg, tell me what you did."

Meg stood, slowly, and walked to the door of her apartment. "I let him fuck me. I let him beat me. I let him put me in his car, drunk, and then I caused the accident. The pen. I killed him, Randy." She opened the door and tossed her car keys to Randy. "Take the rental; go home. And don't worry, I understand. Fuck, I expected it a long time ago."

Stunned, Randy picked up the keys from where they'd landed near his feet on the floor. "Meg...you couldn't have...I don't..."

"Randy, I did. I killed Jackson. I almost killed myself." Meg's voice teetered on the brink of breaking; she knew he had to leave, and soon, before she lost control in front of him. "Please, just go. You knew this would...I knew this would happen."

Walking in a wide circle around Meg, Randy slipped from the doorway into the hallway. She nudged his suitcases out behind him; he'd never moved them from the door when he'd come in the previous night.

"I'm sorry, Ran," Meg's whisper, ashy and dry, swirled like dusty leaves in the hallway, "I'm so sorry."

She shut the door, leaving him holding her car keys in the hall.


	16. Loneliness of the Long-Distance Runners

Welcome Blackhat, Westie86, and jongoodwife2014! And as always, thank you to the eminently talented Nattiebroskette for 2AM help and vodka pomegranates :) Aaaand, another thank you to the lovely MetalMayhem, who in all things is my, "Would this really work?" gut check.

* * *

><p>Randy was still trying to understand how he'd ended up in Meg's car. How he'd ended up back at his house, alone, with its empty rooms and cold walls. <em>'I didn't tell her I wanted to leave. She asked me to go.'<em> Dave's words about Meg sabotaging herself echoed in Randy's head, and he sank down into his sofa, laptop in hand.

The reports continued ad nauseum. He read and re-read the police report, marveling at how Jackson could even walk far enough to get into his car given how drunk he was. He looked at each photo from the scene of the accident, but kept returning to the picture of the pen wedged into Jackson's thigh. A thick rope of blood ran from under the pen, and Randy couldn't help but compare the placement of the pen to the welt on Meg's thigh. _'She couldn't have done that to herself on purpose. Could she?' _He kept reading through her files, his head spinning as he continued.

She lingered in a medically-induced coma for the first ten days of her stay at Oechsner, in their ICU – something he didn't understand about brain swelling, then reports on blood loss, spinal trauma, failing several of her responsiveness tests over the course of several days, and he had to put his laptop to the side. _'A drink. Meg would say bad news needs good alcohol.'_ He paced aimlessly before he seemed to remember where the bar was at in his den, and it was several minutes more before he could coordinate his thoughts and actions enough to draw a bottle out from the back of a cupboard.

Randy went back to his inbox, opting not to continue with the report from the ICU. _'I need to know what else happened. Before that, but after that.'_ Each of Remy's reports came with its own message; Randy clicked through each one before coming to what he hoped would offer the answers he was looking for – the root of Meg's motivation. Randy fully understood that her relationship with Jackson had been years and years of emotional upheaval, dramatic antics, and general mutual dissatisfaction, but what he couldn't wrap his head around was what had been so awful that she'd not just let him go so far that night, but that she'd allowed herself to go so far and snap so completely – that she'd killed someone. Someone she said she loved, someone she'd stood by for years, and someone she'd opened her heart and her bed to repeatedly. She'd left Joe for Jackson, but had she left Joe just to kill Jackson? Had it been spontaneous, the plan all along, an act of complete desperation, or an act of suicide that was never meant to take Jackson with her? The last notion brought the bottle of tequila quickly to Randy's mouth, and with his other hand, he opened the file.

_'Patient violently uncooperative, screaming for specific persons not present in room, not available. Names previously noted in file, presumably are persons from patient's past/family. Patient attacking RNs, DOCs, CNAs, associated support staff. Security called. Patient physically restrained to bed, IM injection of 20 mg Haldol, 50mg Thorazine PRN used (typical use of 5mg Haldol/25mg IM Thorazine not attempted as ineffectual in all previous attempts). Patient placed in four-point leather restraints for safety, chest and leg strap also applied, IV started for PRN Versed 2mg for immediate sedation. Bedside supervision x2 present for all procedures._

_Physical exam conducted with consent from department director as patient unwilling, unable to offer consent, is not deemed capable of offering consent and director has concluded it is not medically advisable to continue care without complete patient history._

_Excluding injuries sustained in single-vehicle accident, the following has been observed via physical exam: (includes use of CT, MRI, manual/visual examination, blood and laboratory analysis, standard examination techniques, approved hospital protocol/techniques). This list is general, non-exhaustive, and does not include findings across all departments. Refer to specific departmental records for all specific systemic findings._

_Right orbital fracture in early stages of healing, extends/includes bridge of nose._

_Pupil responsiveness continued sluggish (not related to administration of PRN/STAT medication), can be reasonably associated with repeated head trauma, exacerbated by trauma of accident, but consistent with physical abuse.)_

_Hematomae/contusions across all stages of healing, across all areas of body. Includes bruising in shape of hand/palm prints, shoe/foot prints, firm edge markers consistent with use of belt/cord, possible burns (require legal/police evaluation for determination of origin, electrical/friction/chemical), consistent with physical abuse. _

_Abrasions across wrists and ankles consistent with ligature/use of untrained restraint. Similar ligature marks across throat, both wide and narrow. Friction abrasions present._

_Blood values showing stabilization of markers consistent with improvement of dehydration, mineral levels._

_Pelvic exam – trauma consistent with repeated forced sexual intercourse, object trauma. Bruising, tearing, all improved, stitching to be removed upon arrival of OBGYN, bleeding appears to be improved now 14 days post D&C waiting upon arrival of OBGYN, rectal exam showing similar improvement from trauma, stitching requires additional 72 hours before removal, general area exam notes light scarring to right buttocks in line possible use of blade object (requires analysis from legal/police), patient not removed from four-point restraint for performance of exam, no visual signs of STI, all swabs/tests still negative, still waiting for repeat analysis._

_Osteo trauma excluding all vehicular accident damage includes additional broken ribs posterior/dorsal, wrist fractures/dislocations, broken L ankle, compression fracture to L tibia, repeated soft tissue (cartilage) trauma in shoulders possible repeated dislocations – DO paged for repeat exam._

_Patient sedation continued. Patient generally non-verbal when conscious unless screaming for persons previously named in file, refusing to answer questions, appears possibly dissociative, though not amnesiatic, psychiatric department paged, expected patient to be non-cooperative, determination of services to be made.'_

Randy read it, re-read it, traced his fingers over the screen, touching various words as he went. The injection she received, being physically restrained, then being tied to the bed, then even more chemicals through an IV to sedate her – he was reeling. That Meg was screaming, he could believe, but who was she screaming for? Then, the injuries. Everything that had been done to her, both in the exam and by Jackson. _'No wonder she fought; she didn't want any more. Couldn't take any more. Why didn't you just ask her what she wanted? She could talk; she was telling you who she wanted, she was telling you to leave her alone...there was nothing wrong with her that I couldn't have...'_ Randy groped for his phone, dialing Remy.

"Allo, c'est Remy."

"Remy...hey. It's Randy."

"Ah, Randy. The reports went through, correct?"

"Yeah, but...listen...she..." Randy trailed off, not sure if he should repeat what Meg said and even less sure how to ask for help in understanding.

"Mon dieu. It _did _happen. You changed your mind." Remy's tone was thoroughly disappointed. "Randy. Non. I told you. Read the reports."

"Remy, that's what I'm trying to tell you! I need help. I _am_ reading them. She realized I was reading them, and she started talking about how she killed Jackson, and then she said she was expecting me to find out, and then she told me to leave. I went back to my place, I'm still reading, and holy shit...everything that happened to her...it's fucking unreal. Everything in the accident, okay, but everything in the hospital...and what Jackson did to her before...then in the hospital they did...Remy, I don't even know what half that shit means. Help me?"

"Merde, Randy...merde. Bien, bien. Where are you reading now?" Remy was quiet, but something in his voice was willing.

"What's thorazine and haldol? And versed?"

"Antipsychotic medications. The last is a powerful sedative, used for surgery."

"But she didn't have surgery when they used it, she had a physical. Why would they give that to her?"

"Because she hurt so many doctors and nurses. She screamed for you and for Dave constantly, and would attack people. I tried to tell them, the woman is not crazed, she is alone. Let her go, or let them come. They did not, and so she continued to attack. Eventually, they left her unconscious nearly all the time."

_'She is alone. And she told me to leave, and I left. What the fuck was I doing?'_ "Jesus...okay...firm edge markers?"

"Objects. Things that are hard, ah, how to explain..." Remy trailed off. "Were that you spoke French, Randy."

"You mean, Jackson was beating her with _things?"_

"Oui! Oui, exactement. Things. Or throwing her against things, perhaps."

Randy dropped his head. "I didn't even read all of the files. I didn't even read all of _this_ file."

"What else to say...he was...she suffered so much trauma from the accident that the hospital-"

"Remy." Randy's voice was gutted. "Remy, just...I..."

"So she told you she caused the accident?"

"How the fuck are you so calm? How? She killed someone! He nearly killed her! She nearly killed herself!"

"Oui. And in moments of desperation, desperate things happen." He shrugged, the phone rustling against his chin. "She suffered under his love. Why, I do not know; perhaps you know. And I do not think she wanted to die, truly, else why would she call for you?"

"She...she had the pen...she wrote my phone number...then she said she caused the accident...so she stabbed him...that caused the wreck?"

"Most likely, oui. The number was smeared when we took her out; it had to be written there before she wrecked. Oechsner simply did not have a good solution for helping her. Tulane would have been better, but she did not want to stay."

Randy held his phone, silent, his hands shaking, not knowing what to do with the information Remy was giving him. "Then why...how did...why didn't the police..."

"They assumed the pen was a part of the accident. You must have missed the photograph of the ice scraper though Jackson's leg." Remy laughed dryly. "I did as well, until her behavior became so erratic and you told me more about Jackson. Everything we knew was a guess. And after the accident, to pursue anything further would have been worthless effort for the police, especially given how badly she was injured by him before."

"Remy, what do I do?"

"Randy...you do what your heart tells you. You must decide what you can forgive and what you cannot. _If_ you can forgive. The rest comes after, if she is willing. And if it even matters."

"Remy...I don't know what to _do._"

"Take your time, Randy. Read. Think. Read again. She will understand. In her own way, I think she was telling you to take your time. Adieu."

* * *

><p>Meg, having had several long hours to sit in silence and contemplate her options, finally realized she had none left. That settled, she set about signing the paperwork Sarah left that morning, her phone never far from her side. When it rang, Meg pounced on it without looking, praying that it would be Randy. She nearly drove her pen through the packet of papers after hearing who greeted her.<p>

"Babygirl...it's Joe. Can we talk?"

Meg didn't know what to do or say, and just looked at her phone stupidly. "Joe?" She inhaled, shakily, and put the pen down, Jackson making sure to knock it from the counter to the floor just to irritate her further.

"What...you're...did you..."

"Meg, just talk to me. I couldn't, before. I wasn't ready, I was stupid...I don't know. I don't know what I was doing. I gave up on you, I didn't let you explain, and I at least owed you that much. You don't owe me anything, you don't owe me an explanation, I don't deserve...Meg, I'm sorry. I'm just sorry."

"What, so your fiancee is off-again?" Meg couldn't help her anger. _'Everything fell apart on me. You fell apart on me. I'm supposed to be okay with this?'_

"No, Meg. She's...we're...still together. But it's not like what I had with you. I'm not going to lie and say I'm happy with her, because I'm not. And...and I don't know what happened to us. And I want to know, because...Meg...I made the wrong decision."

"Did Randy put you up to this?" Anger, still, but Meg was verging on incredulous.

"No...why? Did something happen? Are you okay?" The concern in his voice was unnervingly legitimate, and Meg didn't know how to respond.

"Joe...I can't do this right now."

"Then just let me talk, Meg. Please?" Behind him, his wallet was in a shambles across his bed, his keys and car long gone. Joe's fiancee had been gone since brunch, taking his black card with her. She'd sent a text to say she was fine, shopping, having fun with the girls, and not to wait up for her. It was there he'd nearly thrown his phone across the room. _'Don't wait up for you? It's eleven in the morning! How the fuck late are you going to be out? Are you coming back?'_ He called her, but it went to voicemail each time. The longer Joe sat at home, alone, the worse his mood became, the hotter his temper grew, and the heavier his heart felt. He'd wandered back to the drawer where he kept Meg's – his – shirts, without realizing it, and was folding and re-folding her favorite as he spoke to her.

"Joe..." Meg's voice was exhausted, and she fell heavily back onto her sofa.

"I kept all your shirts, babygirl. Well, my shirts, but the ones you slept in. They still smell like you, Meg. Roses. I miss you. Do I even have the right, anymore?" He fell equally heavily back onto his bed, credit cards clattering around him. "Why did I fuck up, Meg?"

"Joe, stop," Meg whispered, "Please."

"I'm sorry. I just – baby, I don't know what to do. When you left, I died. Everything died. I didn't understand what you were doing, Meg. I still don't. And then she showed up -"

"And you needed the company?"

"Meg, no. It wasn't like that. She didn't come near me til right before the surgery. I don't know how she found out you were gone. Dave swore up and down he didn't tell her; I doubt Randy did. He hated her. She was just...she filled the space, you know? You left. You were the one constant thing I had, and then she was trying to be there for me. It was stupid. So fucking stupid."

"Then what is it you want? For me to say I'm sorry you feel sorry for yourself, is that it?" Meg was beyond irritated with the whole thing. "You're just...late, Joe. On the whole thing."

"Meg, I don't know what I'm doing! I don't know what I'm supposed to say. I can't tell you anything other than how I feel, because I don't know anything about _you_ right now. I'm sorry it sounds like it's all about me...how do I make it about us?"

_'Us! Wait...us?' _"Joe...what us? There _is_ no us anymore, remember? You ended that. You've got a fiancee."

"And that's a mistake."

"Oh for fuck's sake. Joe...what do you want from me?"

"Just talk to me, Meg. Tell me everything. Or tell me I fucked up too bad, and I -" He caught himself short, sighed heavily, and started over. "I had a conversation with Randy a long time ago where I promised him, if you ever told me to just leave you alone, I'd respect that. He also told me, if I had questions, I had to learn how to actually ask you for what I wanted to know. So...if you want me to leave you alone, Meg, I will. If not, then I'm asking you, tell me what happened."

_'Finally...and isn't this what I wanted all along? Just a chance to talk?'_ "Joe, you're not going to...fuck. I don't even know where to start."

"At the beginning, babydoll. I have all the time you need." He banged around his bar, finally coming up with the bourbon that reminded him so clearly of caramel and Meg, and then settled back into his bed. "I want to know, Meg. Everything."

Without a clear path to start on – and a warning that it would all be out of order, circular, broken – Meg started a stilted explanation of her past months away from Joe. The nights above the bar, and then the nights above her own body, watching Jackson pound on her, pound into her, praying for it all to end but knowing that if she strung him along then he'd be that much farther away from Joe. Gently occasionally, Joe asked questions, but left her largely to her own storytelling, letting her pour out as much as she could between sobs or long pauses. _'She went through all that so I didn't go through all that. She's either as crazy as I thought, or she loved me as much as I thought, or both. Maybe both. And what do I do if it's both?'_

The flinch in Meg's voice was massive when she got to the night of the crash. Joe hushed and hummed her through the few sentences she was able to choke out, and found himself wishing he was there to hold her. _'She needed me. The whole time I should have been answering the phone, or looking for her, and I was letting that asshole do it. Just fucking up, Joe. Mistake after mistake. Not anymore.'_

Joe listened to her talk for hours, hearing sleep creeping in between her words, and then smiled as she drifted off while mid-sentence. _'Just like we used to. God, I missed this. I missed her.' _He swirled his bottle of bourbon, gritting his teeth when he heard his fiancee slam her car door outside. _'And if I play it right, I can still have the best of both worlds.'_

* * *

><p>"Meg? Meg! It's Sarah!" She pounded on the door like she wanted to pound through it. "You okay? I saw your boo-thing take off with some suitcases. Girl, you better not be dead in there. He's hot, but he's <em>not<em> all that."

Meg jolted her up from the sofa, where she had fallen asleep with her phone tucked under her chin. "I'm not getting any space to think today, am I, Cosmic Being?" She picked up the stack of forms from the counter and limped to the door, opening it to reveal Sarah in the hallway, a bottle of Jack in hand and her cat trailing around her feet.

"Here's the paperwork, Sarah. Sorry about the wait."

Sarah let herself in unceremoniously and dropped down on Meg's sofa, the cat prancing in behind her. "You're forgiven on the condition that you tell me boo-thing's name and what the hell is going on with you."

Meg shut the door and sat down cautiously on the opposite end of the sofa, surprised when Sarah's cat let itself up into her lap. "If I tell you what's going on with Randy-"

"Ironic; hot _and_ horny?" She smirked.

"-If I tell you what's going on, are you going to kick me out?"

"Drugs or guns?"

"No. One dead body, but he's buried four states away and it's a long story."

"You can stay. I put the glasses in the cupboard to the left of the stove; the Jack isn't going to pour itself."

Nearly three hours later, and the story had moved from Meg's apartment to Sarah's, the cat in tow, solely because Sarah had more alcohol at her place. Both had laughed, cried, Sarah had made a few more-than-specific threats against Joe, and Meg found herself relieved at not losing her apartment and warming to the idea of having a friend who was altogether comfortable with the notion of self-destruction as a solution to life's little problems.

"So, he...all that...for that long? Fuck. Fuck me." Sarah was incredulous. She reached over and squeezed Meg's knee supportively. "You know what? Fuck him."

Meg snorted, then laughed until tears were streaming down her face. "Ran-Randy says that _all_ the-the time!" She could barely catch her breath. "I just...oh, Sarah, I fucked up. Every decision I make, I fuck up. It's like I need to stop making decisions. I'm renewing my license and getting a job and forgetting any of this, any of them, ever happened."

Sarah reached up and ruffled Meg's hair affectionately. "Don't be a dumbass. Get your license and all that, but save all the other shit for when you've got a bank account that can support irrational thinking." She winked, then threw a blanket at Meg. "Meanwhile, tuck up. The cat's not letting you leave, and neither am I."

"Sarah, you don't have to-"

"Ohh, no. Nope. You had all that fine man-ass walk out on you today; you're staying where I can keep an eye on you. Besides, you haven't told me the important part, yet."

"What's that?"

"Who's better in bed." Sarah's completely earnest tone had Meg in stitches all over again, and it wasn't long before they were sharing lo mein and bickering good-naturedly over which movies to DVR for later.

_'This isn't so bad. It's been a long time since I just...had a friend.'_ Meg was comfortable in Sarah's presence; the unease of being so readily accepted was fast replaced by a sisterly affection toward the woman, who felt less like a stranger and more like family by the minute.

* * *

><p>Dave was beginning to think the world had fallen off its axis. Meg, who had previously avoided his phone calls like the plague, now answered every time he rang. She had a mailing address, an ID, a renewed license to practice as an LPN, and a decent job at a small, local clinic providing walk-in care. Joe, meanwhile, had distanced himself from his fiancee. He opted to leave her at home while he moved his rehab to the road with the company. Dave, though by no means a physical therapist, found himself spending more and more time with Joe, working him through exercises, stretching, and long conversations about functional and dysfunctional relationships – and which category Joe fell into.<p>

The only outlier for Dave was Randy. Usually, with enough harassing and haranguing, he could get Randy to answer the phone. Where he'd been livid before was now just a rough, hot coal of resentment and Dave believed that with enough time it'd flame itself out. Now, it seemed, there was suddenly only an icy wall of silence with no explanation of the change in communicative temperature. At first it was an annoyance, then a reason for tepid concern, and then Dave's nerves settled into a tangled ball of fear and frustration. Meg offered no answers beyond polite assurances that he was fine, and those quickly flipped into wholesale topic changes.

"Meg, what if I don't believe that he's fine?"

"Then I don't know what to tell you. I haven't seen him for a while, he's busy with rehab." _'I assume, anyway. I'm busy, he's done with me. It was going to happen once he knew.'_ "Anyhoo, Dave, how's stuff with you?"

"It's good. Joe's been asking about you lately. You guys talking again?"

"Yeah...actually, yeah. I'm surprised he said anything. It's good, though. It's nice to have everything be civil again. Can't say he's leaving his fiancee any time soon, but at least I don't have to worry about him slashing my tires or anything."

"So you and Randy cooled it off, then?" Meg's fall from Joe to Randy was so uncontrolled and complete that for her to not know or offer anything about Randy's situation but be happily talking to Joe struck Dave as well past odd and firmly into the realm of, 'Something's really wrong here.'

"How's stuff at work? You keeping up on supplies, or did they finally hire you an assistant for that?" Meg's tone was dry, and Dave knew better than to push. He'd just continue to call Randy and hope for the best, if there was any of that left to spare.

* * *

><p>The last time Randy had been outside was when Meg had asked him to leave her apartment. Since then, he refused to leave his house, answer the phone, or generally communicate with the outside world. He'd nearly drank his bar dry, hadn't showered, couldn't remember the last time he'd changed his clothing, and food had become an afterthought. Talent relations had called, asking him to show up to the next pay show, and Randy had to grit his teeth and agree to go. <em>'I can't go. I can't deal with being here, why would I want to go there? I need to call her. What do I even say to her? Hi, Meg, I miss you, I love you, how the fuck do you kill someone, please don't be suicidal, by the way can you promise you won't ever stab me?'<em> Randy rolled his eyes and leaned against the table in his dining room, not sure when he'd wandered in. The curtains in his house were perpetually open, letting in the moonlight Meg loved so dearly, and it was in that moonlight that Randy first tipped one chair, then threw another, then another, until there was nothing left to break in the room.

"Meg, what the fuck am I supposed to do now?" Randy walked from the room, not bothering to look behind him at the disaster he'd created. "What, now?"

Randy slept on and off that night, napped more than anything, really, and did his best to ignore his back. _'Fuck therapy. If Meg was here she would –' _and then he forced himself to stop. For the next few weeks, it seemed he could wrap less and less together in his mind. The same Meg who snapped him with rubber bands, loosened salt shaker tops in catering, worked her hands along the muscles along his spine until he thought he could die from the joy of feeling those thin, icy fingers creeping over his skin – was also the same Meg who ran from him and from Joe, set herself up over a bar in New Orleans, drank to the point of alcoholism, let her Jackson rape, beat, torture her, for months, and then stabbed him in the hopes of causing a car crash that would kill him, her, or both of them.

That line of thinking, at least, stopped the terrors from crawling into the recesses of his mind. Pro versus con, yes versus no, why versus not – all stopped Randy from living Meg's nightmare over and over again with her. Each night he attempted and achieved sleep brought a slightly new flavor of hell with it. Some evenings, he watched Jackson as he beat Meg, unable to open any windows or go through any doors, unable to reach her to stop it, and she screamed for him until there was too much blood for her to speak. Other times, he watched the car as it hurtled down the highway, seeing Meg's head slam through the side window again and again. Then, there were the dreams of Oechsner, Meg reaching for him, begging him to stop them, not to let them touch her, drug her, to stop them from taking any more from her. Meg, nearly buried in IV lines, strapped to her hospital bed, would howl at Randy, asking him why they wouldn't listen to him, didn't he love her, wouldn't he make them stop, telling him she'd do anything if he'd just make the doctors stop – and they never did.

When he was particularly drunk, the darkest corners of Randy's mind gave him Meg, already beaten, already wrecked from the crash, collarbone protruding, leg crushed, old glass from the hotel mirror still in her back, but somehow in Randy's house, in his bedroom, tied to his bed, Jackson's hands around her throat, tearing at her hair. He watched Meg's wrists bleed from the binds Jackson used, heard her begging him to stop, get off of her, get out of her, promising him she'd be good, she'd listen, do whatever he wanted if he'd just stop hurting her, not to do this in front of Randy, and the whole time Jackson – mangled from the crash – just stared at Randy. The nightmare of Jackson plowing into Meg, punching or slapping at her as he pleased, daring Randy to come closer and try to stop him, telling Meg that if she just said how much she loved it, how much she wanted it, then he would let her go and it would all be over – it felt endless to Randy when he was trapped in the dream. No matter how close he came to grabbing her, to pulling Jackson off of her, they were always farther away. The harder Meg cried, the more she begged for respite, the more violent Jackson became. On those nights, he woke screaming, in a cold sweat, pawing blindly for his phone, but never able to bring himself to call her. _'Meg, what would I tell you? That I'm afraid of you? That I'm afraid for you? That I don't even know if I'm afraid at all, or if I should be?'_

* * *

><p>The days that stretched endlessly compressed abruptly, and Randy found his aimless wandering through his house replaced by aimless wandering backstage at corporate's latest pay show, which was at least in St. Louis. Talent Relations had taken one in-person look at him, directed him to put on a suit, and then immediately set to hand-wringing about whether or not he could even hold up through a two-minute segment without collapsing under the weight of whatever was on his mind. In the end, they opted to replace his segment with the re-introduction of what they delicately referred to as a Legend, instead of simply sending him home, leaving Randy with that much more time to shuffle around. He nodded politely at his friends and co-workers backstage, poked food around a plate in catering, and did his damnedest to avoid Dave, who he knew would be looking for him.<p>

It wasn't long before his plan failed, and he found himself being backed into a triage bay by Dave, who for all his gruffness wore his concern openly across his face.

"Were you going to tell me you were working on a slow suicide, or were you just going to let me discover the body? You look like _shit_, Randy. What the hell is going on with you?"

"Dave, I'm not in the mood for this."

"You're never in the mood for anything. I thought you and Meg were keeping an eye on each other?" Randy flinched visibly, and Dave knew he was on to something. "Randy...you have to tell me what's going on. Meg makes it sound like everything's fine, but looking at you – really _looking_ at you – shit's going on. I need to know, and you need to tell me – what happened?"

"I haven't seen Meg in a while. That's all. She's...got some shit she's...working out." _'And so do I, because of her.' _"And...I got a hold of her medical reports from the accident." Randy mumbled as his eyes fell, and Dave watched something inside of him crumble.

"Okay...okay, look. After the show, we need to sit down and talk. And during the show, I need you to stay away from Joe."

"He's here?" Randy bristled, and Dave could see the tension explode over him.

"They're faking some kind of satellite hook-up, something about an interview. I wanted you to know ahead of time, since you for-real look like you're in a mood. I don't want you doing anything stupid. Please? I don't want to have to explain anything to Meg."

"She's talking to you?"

"She's _not _talking to you?" Dave was incredulous.

Somewhere down the hall, a rack of chairs crashed and a chorus of voices called for medical. "Look...okay, look." He glanced around the triage bay, then over to the door, then back to Randy. "Stay in here. Please? Just stay in here. I have to go. Your segment got nixed anyway, you don't have anywhere to be."

Randy chuckled wryly. "Good news travels fast?"

"That's not how I meant it. And we need to talk. Stay in here." Dave jogged out the door as fast as his thick legs would carry him, leaving the triage door cracked behind him, and Randy eased himself up onto the exam table. Boredom eventually got the better of him, and he eased from the room into the hallway, only to bolt back into the triage bay and hold himself against the door, barely daring to breathe.

Coming down the hall at a snail's pace, chatting idly into his phone, was Joe. He nodded and smiled at people as he passed them in the hallway before deciding to lean against the wall directly outside of triage and continue his conversation.

Randy didn't care who Joe was talking to; it was the topic that brought him to seething: Meg.

* * *

><p>"It's good, man. Shit's good. You'd be surprised, actually. If I just let my fiancee do what she wants, she's gone most of the day. Then I can talk to my girl." Silence, a broad smile on Joe's face, more silence. "No, man. My girl. Not my fiancee. You remember that crazy bitch I told you about? Yeah, that one."<p>

Randy felt his teeth clench, which rapidly developed into a fierce ache in his jaw. He held perfectly still, his eyes locked onto Joe, who seemed oblivious to his presence. "Yeah, _that_ one. Meg. The one that ran off. I got shitfaced and called her. Turns out, she ran off to New Orleans and was letting her ex do her. I know, I know – no, but listen! Listen. So I guess Meg got into all kinds of shit while she was down there, he was knocking her around, she ended up in some kind of car wreck that she said she caused, but who knows how true _that_ is, this girls drinks like a motherfucker...anyway, so I called her up, and she's – get this – she's _lonely."_

_'Say it like that again. Say it, Joe. Make it sound like it's all her fault.'_ Randy's vision was starting to be ringed by a violently-bright white halo.

"So we're talking more. It's funny. I mean, don't get me wrong, I missed her. She's a great girl. Smart, pretty, all that – but once she lost her shit like that, it was like, naw, man. I'm done. I don't need that drama. At least my fiancee is predictable bullshit, you know? Buy her some shoes, she shuts the fuck up for a while. But this one...I'm pretty sure if I keep playing nice, I can get her back into bed. She's a train wreck. Needy. Needy and lonely."

The halo grew harder, harsher, and a thrillingly high-pitched squeal began to bore into Randy's ears. He wasn't sure where the noise was coming from, but the pain was almost delightful. _'Wreck. Wreck you. I'm going to wreck you.'_

"Right! Yeah, see, now you remember. Meg. That one. Yeah – the one I told you about where she'd do that kinda swirl thing with her hips if you got her up in your lap when you're fucking her? Yeah, _that_ thing. Mm-hmm. She's by herself, probably in some shitty apartment – no, I'm sure, by herself, I ask her every time I call – so I'm just gonna start bringing her out to shows. My fiancee stays out all night anyway, so I can just dump Meg in a different hotel and then do what I want. If that's all I have to spend on her, then fuck it. It's still cheaper than a pair of shoes, am I right?" The laughter that followed was sickening. "Fuck, I don't know, if I ask her to let me, she'd probably let me. Not like I have to tell her. Look, man, I gotta go. Yeah, yeah, I'll let him know."

Joe slipped his phone back into his pocket, smiling. "Shitty thing is, I actually _do_ miss her. Oh well." He spotted Dave further down the hall, trying to wrap a grumbling stagehand's ankle, and waved in his general direction before walking towards him. "Hey, ol' man! Can we set up a stretch-out when you're done?"

Randy, so far beyond furious that the squeal had become a staticky hiss, could feel his heart pounding in his head. _'The fuck? The fuck was all that? He's talking to Meg? He's talking _about_ Meg?'_ His hands had clenched so tightly together that his fingertips were leaving bruises in his palms. He chanced sticking his head far enough out of the doorway to watch Joe, who finished his chat with Dave and then checked his phone again. Pointing to his phone and then pointing down a hallway, Joe sauntered away from the crowds of people.

Unseen by Dave, Randy slunk from the door and went in the opposite direction Joe had gone, knowing the arena like the back of his hand. _'I cut right at this hallway, and I end up in front of you. Even if I don't, I end up closer than you think. And then you can tell me all about what Meg can do with her hips, if I let you keep your teeth that long.'_

* * *

><p>Joe, with his back to one open end of the hall, was smiling warmly at his phone. <em>'Maybe it's more genuine than I think. I really need to get my shit straight on this, because I'm gonna get myself in trouble.'<em> Meg was giggling her way through a story about her exploits with the copy machine while at work. She was trying to scrape toner out from the edges of her fingernails when Joe's phone hit the concrete floor. The call cut to static, came back in, and then Meg knew with certainty she was hearing him fighting with someone – and it sounded like Randy.

* * *

><p>"Tell me again that she's a train wreck!" Randy had wrapped Joe's hair around his fist, and was using it as a handle to snap his head back and forth, slamming his face into the cinderblock walls on every other word. Joe felt something under his right eye snap, and his vision blurred and swam sickeningly. Randy swept Joe's legs out from under him and threw him toward the ground, feeling his own spine slip and give way with the effort. He simply rode the wave of pain to the floor, adjusting his fall to land on Joe, grabbing him by the hair again and slamming the back of his head repeatedly against the floor. "Tell me again that she's just some crazy bitch!"<p>

Joe realized it was Randy on top of him, and couldn't resist laughing, even with a mouth full of blood. It also served as a wonderful excuse to spit in his face, which slowed Randy enough to allow Joe to connect on several punches and gain some control of the fight. "The fuck is wrong with you? You jealous? She still not giving it up to you? Because I guarantee I can hit that whenever I want!" Clawing away from Randy and dragging him to stand, Joe managed several shots with his knee to Randy's chest and stomach before throwing him backward.

Randy went flying back, but kicked a leg out as he went, catching Joe in the side, dangerously close to the site of his surgery. His eye was starting to swell from Joe's punch, and with Joe doubled over from the kick, Randy lunged at him again, taking him to the ground for a second time.

Meg, still listening to the altercation on the phone, was disgusted at Joe's words, but also frozen by the violence of Randy's attack. She could hear what sounded like punches and kicks, both men swearing they'd kill the other one, and constantly – her name. Joe was saying he could have her anytime and daring Randy to stop him from doing what he wanted with Meg, Randy daring Joe to try, saying she deserved better, she would never go back to him, she wasn't broken or crazy. Finally, Meg started to yell into her phone for them to stop, but she doubted they'd be able to hear her. In a panic, she called Dave, guessing that if the two men were together it was likely at the pay show.

"Medi-"

"Dave, you have to find Randy and Joe! Now! They're fighting!"

He stuffed his phone in a side pocket of his pants, needing only to follow the echoing cracks and thuds in order to find both men, arriving just in time to see Randy bending Joe dangerously backwards over an equipment crate, one hand around his throat, the other reared back to continue a chain of punches. Joe managed to bring a knee directly into Randy's crotch thanks to Dave's distracting presence, and Randy gasped and fell backward. His hands didn't know where to grab first for relief, and Joe took the opportunity to lunge forward at Randy again, grinding his forearm into his throat and slamming his head backward against the floor. Dave had to scramble to get between the two men, using a sloppy sliding tackle to kick his way into the space. Joe and Randy both continued to reach around Dave to attack each other, but Dave's bulk made it difficult for either to make contact with the other.

Forcing them apart, Dave dug for his phone, breathing heavily and staring agog at the bloody, mangled pulp that both Joe and Randy's faces were comprised of. "Meg! Meg. You've got to-"

"I'm coming. Just make sure I have a way in."

"Go around to the back of the arena. We're by the A-section. If these two fools let me get up, I'll prop a door."


	17. Pick Your Poison

Sorry about the delay. I had a little...familial drama to deal with before getting this one out. It's amazing what a swift punch to the head can accomplish.

In case I haven't, welcome jongoodwife2014!

* * *

><p>Meg borrowed Sarah's car and drove to the arena no faster or slower than she would have if she were headed out to get groceries. Her brain simply didn't know how to process what she thought she heard on the phone, so she simply chose to ignore it until her eyes confirmed it. <em>'I'm just going to see Dave. To help him out. It's kinda like work, but...not. Just think of it like work, Meg. So you don't drive off the road. You saw how that almost ended last time.'<em>

It was impossible for Meg to find the correct section of the arena once she arrived; she knew she'd be looking around the back, where the parking was scarce and the lighting was bad, but the number and letter system for the decks made no sense. Whether that was her nerves or the repeated blows to the head, she wasn't sure, but she threw the car into park and called Dave.

"Meg, don't say you're not coming. I need help." He was breathless, and Meg could hear Randy and Joe still hurling threats at each other.

"I'm coming – I mean, I'm here. But I don't know where you are. What door am I looking for?"

"The one you can hear the yelling through. They're at it again, and I'm gonna call security if they – Randy, no!" Dave dropped his phone, and Meg flung her car into a parking spot. Making sure to stuff her keys in a pocket, she ran along the back length of the arena, listening at each door she stopped at. It took her several minutes in breath-robbingly cold weather, but she caught up to the muffled banging and cursing as both Randy and Joe's voices echoed out into the parking lot from behind the metal door. Meg pounded on the door and waited.

* * *

><p>"See? Now fucking <em>stop!<em>" Dave was breathless himself, though not from the weather. "I told you Meg was coming, so fucking _stop it!"_ He was worried about her reaction to the scene; it was sheer luck that Joe had been pounced on after filming his segment, but the damage Randy had caused was significant. "What the fuck got in to the two of you?" Both men were leaning against opposite walls of the hallway; Joe on the floor and Randy slumped over the equipment crate he had been pinning Joe against earlier, so Dave felt reasonably safe in lunging for the door and prying it open to let Meg in.

If he knew Randy's opportunistic streak would rear its head and lead him into charging at Joe again, he would have dragged Randy with him. Meg barely made it through the door before she was shoving Dave to the side, trying desperately to beat Randy in a footrace across the narrow hallway before he collided with Joe. She managed to force her way between the two men on the ground, bracing her shoulders back into Randy and pushing back against the wall to drive space between them. Randy threw his hands up and sat back, hard, suddenly afraid that he'd crushed Meg in his dive to get back to Joe. Her entire body was shaking, and she'd buried Joe's head against her chest, trying to shield the swollen side of his face as best she could. By the time she felt reasonably safe that backing away from him wouldn't allow Randy another vantage point for attack, the front of her shirt was covered in blood.

"What...what the fuck did you do?" Meg's voice was an angry whisper; she'd pushed Joe back against the wall and was now in front of Randy, cupping her hands around his jawline and forcing him to look into her eyes. "Are you hurt? Where did he hit you?" From behind her, Joe started to shift, and she dropped her hands from Randy in order to scramble back to him.

"No. No, don't move. Joe, you need to listen to me. I need you to stay still. Dave, can you get ice, or something? We can't move them from here, it'd be a fucking scene and a half."

Dave froze. "Meg, you're out of your mind. One, you can't _be _here. Two, I am not leaving you with Tweedle-Dumb and Tweedle-Dumber. If they post up again, you're not going to be able to stop them."

"Dave..." Randy was caught between panting for breath and trying to work his jaw around words, "I'm not...I won't. I won't. I wouldn't hurt her."

"Oh, but you'd knock the shit out of Joe?" Meg was incredulous. "If you can do _this_," she pointed at Joe's face, "Then you can-"

"Meg, no. _No."_ As much as Randy could open, or even adjust, his eyes, he managed a horrified look.

Pain was starting to override adrenaline, and Joe was starting a low, rhythmic moan in response to his body's inability to ignore the beating he took. Sweat from fighting was beginning to give way to sweat from shock, and Meg recognized the looming signs of the night's second crisis. "Dave, _please?_ I'll take my chances on someone finding me here. The faster you go, the faster you get back, but we need to do something." Her hands had somehow found Joe's, and she was rubbing circles on the backs of his hands with her thumbs.

"Fine. But we need a plan once I get back. I'm going to triage. That gives you sixty seconds."

Once he disappeared into the intersection of the halls, Meg turned to Randy. "What did you do? What did you _do_? He just had surgery; you could _kill_ him pulling shit like this!"

Stunned, Randy managed to sit there mutely staring at Meg, not knowing what to say. His knuckles were thick with blood – both his and Joe's – and he, too, was starting to shake from the effort of simply sitting and breathing. With immense effort, he reached for Meg, brushing sticky fingers along her arm and then wobbling away from her entirely. "Meggie...the shit he said...it was wrong. _He's_ wrong."

"I don't care if he was giving the entire roster a play-by-play of how I get my legs behind my head!" Meg's voice was far louder than she meant for it to be, and the effort of controlling her volume nearly knocked her from her knees to the ground – which was just as well, her shin was begging for mercy. "Whatever he said, he could _not_ have deserved this! Do you see what you did to him? _You're_ gonna have a black eye and sore ribs; you _broke_ his _face!_" Frustrated, she dropped Joe's hands and threw herself up at Randy, pushing him further over the equipment crate and dancing her fingers along the bones and angles of his face. "See? Nothing. Nothing's wrong with you. You're gonna bruise. He barely _touched_ you. I mean, he did. But not like what you did to him."

Randy reached for her hands, trying to press them to his jaw. _'She's freezing. How long was she outside? She needs gloves. She's so angry. If she heard what he said...what did I do?'_ Trying to pull her against him, Randy played emotion over reason as a way to reach her. "Meggie...please. _Please_ believe me. Let's just go. I can tell you what happened when we go." He tried to brush her hair away from her face, keep her from turning back to Joe, hold her still in his arms – anything that wasn't allowing her to leave. The strange, hollow, giddy feeling in his stomach that exploded across him as her frame pressed against his told him everything he'd done was right, but told him nothing about how to make her believe him.

"_Go?_ Ran, you must be out of your mind. I can't just _go;_ who's gonna take care of-'"

"Dave. Dave can do it. But can we go?"

"Randy, stop. Just...stop. Please." Meg shook her head. Randy slumped back against the equipment crate, sliding down along the wall until he felt the cold concrete beneath him. "We'll figure it out, Randy. Okay? Just let me take care of what's going on here." _'I could just...you two are both such fucking idiots.'_

* * *

><p>Driving back to the hotel, Meg kept one eye firmly on the passenger seat and the giant man dwarfing that side of Sarah's car. The bruising was god-awful, as she'd expected it would be. What she hadn't expected was having to drive back to the hotel with only her left hand on the steering wheel, as Joe refused to let go of her right hand. Meg rationalized it to herself and Dave, even while listening to Randy punch the crate again and again, that Joe truly had nobody to take care of him for the night – his fiancee wasn't in town, and even if she was, she wouldn't know what to do. <em>'And all I have to do is keep him in one piece overnight, and away from Randy. We can talk. There's a lot to talk about.'<em>

Joe couldn't believe his luck. Horrible, in that he could feel his face tightening and bruising even under the ice Dave had used to bury his injuries. Brilliant, in that Meg was driving him back to the hotel, presumably to spend the night. It wasn't going to end in sex – even he knew better than that – but there were other things it _could_ end in. Promises, for one. It could end in promises.

Meg steadied him on the way to the elevator, feeling the tension that radiated through his body. _'I should call his fiancee. She's not gonna be happy, but she should know.' _No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than Joe leaned heavily against her, pushing her into the wall near the elevator call-button. Her left shoulder collided with the wall, and she hissed from the impact. Gently righting Joe, fussing against his efforts to turn her to face him, she tried to work her shoulder in a circle while waiting for the elevator to arrive.

"Babygirl, what happened? Did I hurt you?"

"Don't worry about it. I'm fine. Or at least, I'm gonna be sore for a while. Shit happens."

Joe gently pulled her against him as the elevator doors opened. Meg was unprepared for his embrace, and nearly tripped over her feet as they walked into the boxcar, earning a chuckle from Joe. "Do I have to help _you_ upstairs?"

Meg nudged him playfully. "Hush. You're not allowed to give me any shit, walking-wounded." Once in his room, she eased his jacket from his shoulders, and couldn't repress the shiver that followed. He was warm, his cologne was familiar, and the hundreds of nights they'd done this same dance played through Meg's mind rapid-fire. Parallel to the familiarity ran the thought that she couldn't place the shiver – where being that close to Randy had lit her in ways that defied words, suddenly being close to Joe lit nothing other than memories. She shrugged it down, but it left her irritable. _'I want something...from him? This doesn't make sense. Something's missing.'_

He winced as she sat him on the bed, and again as she leaned him back against the pillows and helped swing his legs up onto the mattress. "You need to let me see what's going on. I'm serious. And I don't want an argument." Slowly, Joe lifted the bottom of his shirt, and Meg cringed. His incision was raw and weeping, and she knew it was going to be a long night spent trying to convince him to go to the hospital. She sat next to him on the bed and gently lifted his shirt off of him, rubbing at his shoulders and smiling when his tattoo offered no resistance to her mind. _'There's one thing I have going for me. He's not going to make me crazier than I already am.'_

As much as he could, Joe reached for her and pulled her back against him. Meg started to protest, saying she needed to get him cleaned up, wipe the blood from his face, find fresh ice, but he was having none of it in the moment. In the moment, he wanted to curl himself around his roses and caramel, around the promise that she would fix everything, and around the possibility she would be there in the morning.

_'This feels wrong. Wrong and right. Everything he said when I tried to talk to him...he was so hateful. But I missed him so much. Meg, stop. Stop. Just call his fiancee. And call Randy. Make sure he's okay.'_ Joe watched Meg drift away into her own mind, and managed half a smile, pulling her tightly against him.

"Let me know when you're ready to talk, babygirl," He murmured, "We have all night."

Meg writhed herself loose from his grasp, shaking her head, but holding his hands all the same. "Ice. Ice and towels. And then maybe we talk. Joe, I don't know what to do. Take care of you, for one. And I need to call your fiancee. Beyond that..." Joe pulled her toward him, gently, feeling Meg tense the entire way. Fully aware of the blood still on his face, the sweat still sticky on his skin, he brushed his lips against her cheek.

"All on your time, okay? You tell me." He slowly released her hands and leaned back into the bed, but never took his eyes off of her. _'Meg, tell me what to do. I don't want to screw this up, and I don't have a plan. Yet.'_

* * *

><p>Dave was spending an equally long night with Randy. Meg had asked him to drive Randy back home, saying she was worried about what he might do in light of the fact she'd opted to go to Joe's hotel rather than Randy's house. As both men had done so many times before where Meg was concerned, they sat in brittle silence. Randy held a ridiculous amount of ice to his face, couldn't find a comfortable position in the SUV, felt his eyes threatening to brim over, and kept side-eyeing the door handle as though he might open it while they drove.<p>

"Randy...you need to let her go. I know you two weren't talking; maybe it needs to stay that way."

"No. No, Dave. Just stop."

"You're killing yourself over her, and she made it pretty fucking clear that she doesn't want that. Or you."

"Dave, _stop!"_ Randy felt his stomach turn over, and he started pawing at the switch for the window. Dave sighed and pulled over, letting Randy fling himself into the grassy shoulder and alternate between throwing up and screaming. The scene was, by degrees, pathetic and heartbreaking.

"Okay, Randy. Calm down. Meg said she'd call." Dave crouched down, trying to be reassuring and avoid any spatter. "I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry. I'm just...frustrated with her. Sick of her doing this. She gets something good in her life and she runs from it." He sighed heavily. "I heard what you said about Joe, but I didn't hear the conversation. What did he say?"

"He-" Randy was gasping for breath; his ribs hurt, his shoulders burned, his head pounded, and there was a broken ache somewhere further in his center than trumped every other physical concern he had, "He was on the phone with someone. I dunno who, but...but it was about Meg."

"Go on..."

"He's such a douche. _Such _a douche. Said she's needy. Broken. Was talking about her in bed. That he's going to get her back in bed. His fiancee doesn't know, so he can just fuck them both."

Dave felt his blood pressure jump up and the shooting pangs of a headache lodge firmly at the base of his neck. "Tell me you're kidding. Please."

"Do you think I'd beat the fuck out of him just for dumping her?"

"You might. Honestly, Randy, you might."

"Oh, shut the fuck up, Dave." Randy tilted onto his hip, still trying to catch his breath. "And help me get back in. I just want to go home."

* * *

><p>After several hours of fretting and dabbing, Meg managed to get Joe cleaned and bandaged to her satisfaction. She finally allowed herself a few moments to relax and breathe, washing her hands in the bathroom and giving herself a few seconds to think – fully aware that Joe was watching her every move.<p>

"You don't have to stare, Joe. I'm right here." _'And I need to get some answers while I'm around.'_

"Can't help it. Best thing I've seen all night. Improvement over watching the wall meet my face, anyway."

Meg switched the faucet off and scrubbed her hands dry with much more vigor than was necessary. "Joe...what was that about? Randy kept saying I didn't hear you."

_'Shit! Shit. He heard me? Okay, but she didn't hear me. And she's asking me first. Think.'_ "I was on the phone, and yeah, I was talking about you. That it was good to be able to talk _to_ you." _'I don't have to tell you _why_ it's good to talk to you, now do I?'_

"And he went postal over that?" Meg's eyebrows immediately furrowed; Joe could see she wasn't buying it.

"He...Meg, you're gonna be mad. Can you promise me you'll let me get the sentence out first?" _'Spin it, Joe.'_

Meg's arms crossed in front of her, and Joe immediately recognized the stance as her bracing for an argument. "Go ahead, Joe. I'll wait."

"I was talking to family. One of my cousins. I'd be willing to bet Randy heard me say you felt broken, and that's when he got mad. I didn't say _you_ were broken, Meg." _'Lies and bullshit, because that's not what I said, and you're a mess.'_ Joe reached for her, hoping that she'd reach back, but not at all surprised when she didn't. He simply let his hands fall to the bed and plastered what he hoped was a defeated look on his face.

"So he did _all_ this to you?"

"You didn't hear the conversation he had with me on my porch after I...after we...when I was...the day you came back. From Louisiana." Joe shifted his feet uncomfortably. "He was ready to punch me then." _'Except that he wasn't. Oh well.'_ "Meg...Randy's been pissed off at me for a long time. This was just the first time he's seen me. He's been out, I've been out...I'm not gonna lie and say I haven't been an asshole, but do you _really_ think I deserved all this? You even said he could have killed me, and then what?"

Meg stood still, almost more stone than the night Jackson had driven her through the mirror in the hotel. "Joe...fuck...I'm still angry about that day. But I've talked about it so many times with Randy, and he's never...I don't know. He's so horrible at hiding his feelings. How would I not know?"

"Randy hides a _lot_ of things from you, Meg." _'And you just gave me my in, you dumb bitch. Good work. You're mine, now. Here comes the pity.'_

The corner of Meg's eye developed a near-immediate tic. "What are you talking about?"

"Did he tell you about the night he took your medallion? He must have, he gave it back to you."

Meg's hand unconsciously flew to cover it. "Yeah, and he said you were talking shit about me, so he punched you. Well, spit first, then punched you. Exact words."

"No, he spent a few hours getting me drunk, then provoked me into an argument, then kneed me in the balls, then spit, _then_ opened a cut over my eye. Then he stole your medallion. I didn't give it to him, he just took it. And for the record, this whole hernia thing? I started having massive stomach pain after he did all that. He left me on the ground, Meg." _'And odds are you're not going to ask about Dave being there. I win this round.'_

Disbelief gave way to horror, and Meg sat down on the bed, groping blindly for Joe's hands. "Okay...okay, let's say that since _most_ of that jives with what Randy said, but has more detail, let's say I believe you. At least on this front. What do you want me to do?"

"Stay away from him, Meg. Every time he's angry, he hurts someone."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Joe. He's never hurt me, and he's been _beyond _angry at me so many times. He'd never hit me, he-"

"What, he loves you? I know, he told me that, too. Don't tell me you fell for that, Meg."

Joe had to work, and work hard, to hold his face perfectly still. The stunned expression on Meg's face that gave way to shock that gave way to complete and utter confusion was priceless, and Joe realized he had to jump on the moment in order to capitalize.

"Oh, come on, Meg. He never said _anything_? You _never_ picked up on it? All this cross-country road trip bullshit and he never _once_ said he loved you? It never once occurred to you that he might be doing all this – and let me guess, fancy dinners. Fancy hotels. Fancy everything, parading you around, just like you always told me you hated – all because he had other interests in you, and the dots _never_ connected?" Her eyes looked as though they were beginning to sting, and Joe lowered his tone. "Babygirl...all the time we were together, right up until I fucked up at the end – and I own that, I was the one who fucked up – I always respected you. You were _not_ a trophy to me. You were my Meg." _'Perfect, Joe. Game, set, match.'_

Meg pulled herself fully up into the bed next to Joe, eyes still blank and wide. "I don't-" She swallowed, hard, trying to keep some words down, let others out. "And you have-"

"Shh. Not right now, okay? Just...let yourself be. Figure it out, like you say, but later." He nuzzled the top of her head, Meg never seeing the sadistic smile on his face.


	18. The Heart Betrays Us All In The End

Welcome EyexLinerxWhore (Who has a much cooler nic than I do) to Malum!

And thank you everyone who's read and reviewed. I love you more than words, so...here are more words!

**ACTUALLY: THESE ARE THE MORE MOSTEST IMPORTANTEST WORDS:  
><strong>

**YOU'RE GONNA GET AN UPDATE TOMORROW! 3 PROBLEM SOLVED! THANK YOU TO THE WONDERFUL MODERATORS AT FANFICTION, MOST ESPECIALLY HORUSTHEAVENGER.**

**Let me stop shouting now. Really, though, HorustheAvenger. Brilliant moderator. Love, love, love.**

* * *

><p>Meg picked up and put down her phone so many times she was convinced she'd wear fingerholds into it before she actually called Randy or Dave. The clock read 4:38 AM, and try as she might to convince herself that either man would be asleep, the only person actually resting was Joe.<p>

Joe. The crux of her problem, possibly the decision she shouldn't have repeated, was laying shirtless in bed with her, one arm behind his head, the other laying protectively across the front of her hips, effectively pinning her in place. _'And still...I'm missing something. That feeling. Confusion, fear, okay – that's all there. A lot of what Joe said makes sense, but a lot of what he said...makes no sense at all. But that _other_ feeling.'_ Her body registered the ghost of Randy's hand trailing down her shoulderblade, and the sensation immediately thrilled her into a purr of absolute delight. _'Randy. Joe has a lot more explaining to do.'_ Joe's hand squeezed her thigh, and Meg shifted uncomfortably, in part from the pressure on her cigarette burn, and in part because her reverie broke.

"You okay, babygirl?" Joe didn't move a muscle; didn't open his eyes, but somehow knew she was awake.

"Yep. Getting read to take off, actually. You made it through the night, so I think you can handle yourself in here for a couple days. It's really just a question of ice and pain control, and Dave can do that. I can't be here, legally, doing this stuff...I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I'm better if you stay..." _'The fuck got in to you? Go to sleep. I want you here later in the morning. You're a sucker for breakfast on the balcony.'_

"I know, Joe. But it's not a good idea. You've got your fiancee, I've got..." Meg trailed off. "I've got issues. You know that. And you don't do drama."

Joe winced; he hadn't expected Meg to throw his words back at him. "Babygirl...no.. Please?"

"I can't. I have a lot to think about. Plus, I have to get Sarah's car back to her. Practical shit, you know? How about I check on you later, we split the difference, something like that? She leaned up and kissed his cheek gently. "Okay? I need to think." Her mind felt Randy's hands on her shoulders again, and she shivered.

Joe frowned, but moved his arm. "I can't keep you here, can I?"

Meg slid off the bed, yawning heavily. "Nope. Not this time."

Joe waited til she was well out of the room before rolling his eyes and shifting off the bed to examine himself in the bathroom mirror. Randy had blackened most of his face, a situation he was going to pay for at the first possible opportunity. "Such an asshole, Orton. _Such_ an asshole. And I'm not letting you walk away with her, either. Whether or not I want her. And fuck, it's not like I know what to do with her. But know this – you can't have her."

* * *

><p>Meg tapped her phone against the steering wheel as she drove, Randy's number up on the screen. She backspaced over it, and dialed Dave instead. <em>'Dave is logical. He's going to understand why I left with Joe. Nothing happened between us. Joe was just hurt. Hurt bad. Someone needed to take care of him. And Randy...was I scared? Yeah. Just like he's scared of me.'<em>

The phone rang what felt like an infinite number of times, with Dave's sleep-laden voice finally materializing on the line. He'd fumbled for his phone so hard that he'd nearly knocked himself off of Randy's sofa.

"H'lo? Megs? You okay?" He bit back a yawn and tried to backpaw the sleep from his eyes. "It's barely five in the morning, what the fuck are you doing?"

Randy, restless as anything, had paced his house the entire night, now charging into the den and trying to snatch the phone from Dave. "Is that her? Is she okay? What the fuck was she thinking? Did he do something to her? I swear to God, I really _will _kill him -" He slammed into the back of the sofa so hard he half-knocked the air from his lungs, causing his teeth to start to chatter as a cold sweat coated his body. _'Oh my God. Fucking ribs.'_

Dave pushed Randy's roving hands away from his phone and face, almost falling from the sofa again. "Hang on, Meg. Don't hang up." He put his hand over the receiver and fixed a near-lethal glare on Randy. "You need to stop. I can't put her on speaker or she'll know something's up. You want to be nosy? Sit the fuck down, _shut_ your mouth, and lean in. But _don't _talk. I swear to God, Orton, you're like a goddamned girl." He gave Randy a few moments to limp over to the sofa and settle in before going back to the call, hoping Meg hadn't heard him.

"You still there, Meg? Randy was hovering, so I had to move. I stayed at his place; his back was killing him. It didn't _look_ like Joe tagged him, but...he said he fell. Ribs, too. He just didn't tell _you_ any of that. Like his usual dumbass self." Randy elbowed Dave, hard, and the older man nearly coughed into the phone.

"Yeah, I'm here. I'm surprised Randy _let_ you move. As in, I don't believe he did. So cut the bullshit. He's probably next to you." Meg bounced her leg irritably while she drove.

"Fine. Busted. But it doesn't make a difference, we have the same questions."

"And I have some that are just for you, Dave. So he really does need to fuck off."

Dave tried to get his legs under him and extricate himself from the depth of the leather couch, staggering from exhaustion toward the nearest thing that resembled a bathroom. Randy, too sore to rise off the couch and go after him with any degree of speed, threw a small pillow at him and mouthed that he'd be outside the door. Meg waited til she heard the door lock behind Dave before she continued.

"Can I get my shit out of the way first, before he gets up to whatever door you locked and gets nosy again?"

"Could I stop you, Meg?"

"Fuck you. Anyway," she continued, "Do you know what _really_ happened last night? I got Joe's version, and it's...a _lot_ of it sounds like what Randy told me, but with more detail. More truth, maybe? About shit in the past, anyway. But about what set last night in motion, I don't know. And Joe's all fucked up now."

"He told me bits and pieces. I don't know how much was in order; he's out of his mind from his back and he won't let me do anything about it. Honestly, I think he's hoping you show up and-"

"About _last night_, Dave. Focus."

"Christ, Meg, I'm getting there. You walked off with Joe, and he lost it. Started punching the hell out of the crate all over again, screaming about how you were falling for bullshit, you're not broken, not needy, not desperate, he didn't understand what you saw in Joe. That kind of thing. Then, something about Joe talking about you in bed. Er..." Dave cleared his throat, and Meg could hear his feet shuffle around the floor. "Meg, this is awkward."

"You think it's any easier for me to hear it from you?"

"He said a lot about shit in Seattle. Er, not in Seattle, but you know what I mean."

"Okay, that's not awkward. We didn't do anything. Like I told you. We stayed at that resort together. My shirt came off – once. We drank. But nothing actually happened. Randy was _beyond_ respectful."

Dave inhaled deeply, paused, and then rapid-fired his next sentence, trying to get it out of the way. "Then Randy said Joe was talking to someone about sleeping with you. Things you did in bed. That kind of shit."

Meg winced. _'Okay, all of that stayed consistent. And I _do_ care that Joe was talking about that, nevermind what I said to Randy. Why would he be talking about that with family? Doesn't make sense.'_ "Okay. Uncomfortable. What else?" Meg counted cars as they crossed the intersection while she waited at a red light, trying to make order of her thoughts.

"I think he broke his hand. Something in his hand. He won't go out for that. Or his back. Or ribs. He hasn't slept – just keeps pacing around the house. Meg, he's on the brink."

"Of what?" She gunned the car through the intersection. "Of beating the shit out of someone else?" _'He said he'd never hurt you, Meg. He's never hurt you, Meg. Stop being a bitch.'_

"No, Meg. Of having a nervous breakdown. He needs you." _'He loves you. And I'm about ten seconds away from driving him to your apartment and leaving him on your doorstep, because I'm sick of both of you.'_

Randy chose that moment to thump his shoulder against the door, announcing his presence in as un-subtle a way as possible. Dave and Meg groaned almost simultaneously.

"Okay. Then can you do me two favors? You were probably going to do them already anyway."

Dave silently unfastened the lock and opened the door slowly, praying the hinges wouldn't squeal. He wanted to give Randy time to adjust his weight so he wouldn't fall through. "Go ahead, Meg. Shoot." Dave immediately held a finger up to his lips and glared at Randy, warning him to complete silence.

"I'm guessing you're going to – ow!" Meg grunted as she went over a speed bump in the apartment parking lot and was tossed unceremoniously against the driver's door; Randy's eyes went wide and he reached for the phone, hearing her yelp. Dave reflexively slapped at Randy's hand, momentarily forgetting how bruised it was from the night before, and Randy's knees nearly went out from under him from the pain. He caught himself on the frame of the door, wrenching his back in the process, which caused him to let go of the frame and land on the floor with a thump. "Shit. I'm almost home. Anyway. I'm guessing – Dave, what was that noise?" Meg brought Sarah's car to a complete stop en route to the rental office. "Is everything okay?"

Dave dropped to his knees next to Randy, trying to roll him onto his back. "Uh...uh, yeah, Meg, everything's fine. Go ahead. You were guessing?" Randy's face was contorted into a grimace, but with his uninjured hand stuffed into his mouth, he was doing his best to hold back any yell that might alert Meg to the situation.

"You're a fucking terrible liar, but whatever. I was guessing you were going to see Joe later. Can you...can you talk to him? There's just something _off_ about all of this. I can understand Joe wanting to see me. I can maybe even understand the impulse to apologize. But he's suddenly so focused on..." Meg trailed off, gently easing the car over the next speed bump. "Look. I don't know. I can't word it right. I _usually_ can't word it right, just ask Ran." She chuckled wryly. "Just...talk to him, please? I don't even know what I'm looking for. Your opinion, I guess. What you think about what he thinks."

"Okay, Meggie. I can do that. What was the other thing?" Dave was still on the floor next to Randy, trying to check his hand and spine, but Randy kept pushing him away.

"Can I talk to Randy? I know he's there."

Dave winced, not sure how to make the call work when Randy could barely catch a breath. "Uh...hang on?" He clamped his hand over the phone and whispered. "Randy. Randy! Hey! Focus. Meg wants to talk to you. Can you? C'mon, focus. I know, it hurts. I'm sorry – I fucked up, I wasn't thinking. Talk to her. It's Meg."

Limply, shakily, and with tooth marks on his hand, Randy reached for Dave's phone. "H-hey, Meggie. Listen...I'm s-sorry about last night."

"Jesus, Ran, you sound terrible." Meg's breath caught in her throat. She still hadn't gotten out of Sarah's car, and Sarah was standing outside of the rental office looking at her strangely. "What's wrong? Do you need me to come over? I shouldn't have-"

"No. Y-you were right. I...I..." Randy couldn't breathe deeply enough for a long sentence, and it was beginning to scare him. _'How hard did he get his knee into my ribs? What do I do?'_

"Randy...you're hurt. What can I do?" _'Please? Please can I come do something?'_

_'You could have done something last night. You could have trusted me. You could have come with me when I asked.'_ "No-Nothing. No, Meg. Dave. Dave's here." His voice was pure spite.

"Goddamnit, Randy! No! You're hurt! Please? Please, let me help?" Sarah disappeared into the rental office for a few seconds and came back out with a piece of paper and pen, knocking on the window of the car and passing the items to Meg when she rolled the window down.

'Everything OK?' Sarah's handwriting was more prim than Meg expected.

'No.' Meg wrote quickly, then passed the note and pen, her cigarettes and lighter, and the car keys, to Sarah.

"Meg. I'm fine. F-fine. Dave's go-got it." Dave took that opportunity to snatch the phone back from Randy, who immediately balled up onto his side on the floor and started a coughing fit.

"Meg, he's a mess. I'll see what I can get done here, and call you back in a half hour. If he's not any better, yeah. Then _I_ need you to come." In the background, she could hear Randy saying 'no' over and over. Sarah lit a cigarette outside the car and handed it back to Meg, then lit one for herself and waited patiently.

"Dave...tell him I'm sorry. Tell him I'm so sorry." Meg's voice was whisper-thin, smoke pouring from her mouth like a withered, dying dragon. "Please..." She looked down at her phone and pressed the red icon on the screen.

Randy's eyes were frozen open, and he wheezed for air. Landing as hard as he did over the back of the couch, then wrenching his back, had finished the job Joe started, and his ribs gave up, the cartilage and discs shifting fully and awkwardly. _'Why did I tell her no? What was I saying no to? I want her here. I want her. She scared me, and I scared her. Then she wanted to be here, and I told her no. I asked her to leave. So we both fucked up. I need her.' _He felt his eyes watering, and wasn't sure if it was pain, exhaustion, or something else entirely. His hands clutched at the air of their own volition, as though he could conjure Meg out of nothing and then hold her in place.

* * *

><p><em>-'Meg, stop! Seriously, you've got to stop. I'm gonna get the Ace wrap and bungee you in place if you don't. I'm not letting go til you calm the fuck down.'<em>

_'Randy, if I want to kill her, I can kill her. Did you read the same settlement you showed me? Did you? Or did it not sink in yet?'_

_'It sank in. Believe me, it sank in. I'm fucked, at least short-term. And it's sweet of you to offer to murder my ex-wife. But it'd be awfully hard for me to visit you in prison. My travel schedule sucks.'_

_Meg stopped struggling in his arms long enough to fix him with a screwball look, and then burst into laughter._

_'I'd have to get caught, first. Are you saying you'd narc me out? Traitor.' She nudged her hips against him; he hadn't let go of her arms. He nudged back at her, nearly knocking her out of his arms. 'Jesus, heifer! You trying to dislocate something on me?'_

_'Well, if I break your legs, you can't chase her down and destroy her. So, ma-aybe.' He waggled his eyebrows at her and bumped her forward again, this time stepping forward with her momentum._

_'Ohmigod! Stop!' Meg's laughter was wild, and she tried to paw her arms loose from under his, but he snugged his tighter around her. Randy nudged her around the triage bay until he spun her in his arms and backed her into a corner, smiling gently down at her. The look on his face was strangely warm, and Meg abruptly stopped her laughter in order to puzzle up at him._

_'Meggie. Seriously, though. Don't...don't do anything crazy. Sam's being a bitch, but I have lawyers for it. He pushed a few stray tendrils of hair back from her face, not realizing his antics had knocked so much loose from her ponytail. 'And if she did anything to you, I really would lose it.'_

_'Ran, what could she do to me? Sue for my beat-ass car and my student loan debt?' Meg rolled her eyes. 'If she shows up here, she's getting punched. Minimally. Period. She doesn't get to fuck with you like that. And she's sure as shit not going to swing on me.'_

_Randy pulled her into his arms, hard and impulsively, and Meg lost her balance forward, having to grab on to him to stop herself from turning his embrace into a crash. 'Meggie...just...Meggie,' he mumbled into the top of her head, 'At least you care. Like a fucking tornado, but you care.'-_

* * *

><p>"I've got to get you off the floor, Randy. It's going to hurt. But you can't stay there. Can you sit up?" Dave's voice had no confidence in it whatsoever, and Randy looked equally unsure about his ability to put together any sort of coordinated movement. His vision was swimming, his ears were ringing, and he was beginning to feel a vague tingle in his legs. His teeth had never stopped chattering.<p>

"D-dave? C-call her? P-please c-call her?"

"Yeah. We need some help. We do need that."

* * *

><p>Meg was in the middle of her second cigarette, alternating between deep puffs of her Parliament and digging her nails through the cellophane wrappers around her convenience-store caramels before passing some to Sarah. Barely three minutes had gone by since she ended her call with Dave, and she clutched her phone under her pack of cigarettes and lighter, mouth full of sticky sugar, garbling words to Sarah about the disaster her night-into-morning had been. When her ringtone exploded into the air, she bobbled everything she held, most of it ending up hurled across the sidewalk. Sarah's hands were unoccupied, and she snagged Meg's phone before it hit the ground, answering the call on the second ring. Meg set about collecting her detritus and cursing at herself for cracking her lit cigarette.<p>

"Meg's phone, this is Sarah, and you are?" Sarah had a lilt of amusement in her voice as she watched Meg chase down her remaining unlit cigarettes in the breeze, most of the pack having spilled onto the sidewalk.

"Sarah?" Dave's voice was confused. "The apartment manager? Is she in trouble?"

"No, she dropped all her shit. We're smoking. Snacking. Snoking? I don't think she expected her phone to ring. Are _you_ in trouble?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm in trouble. This is Dave. Can I talk to her? It's kind of an emergency." He looked at Randy, who had curled himself into an even-smaller bunch on the floor, still shaking. "No, uh, it's _actually_ an emergency."

Sarah raised an eyebrow. "Meg! Hey, Meg! C'mere. It's Dave." Meg, who had just finished picking up all of her cigarettes, promptly dropped everything back onto the pavement and nearly planted her foot straight through her pack.

"What happened? You said thirty minutes, not three minutes! Is he okay?"

"He asked for you, Meg. Can you get here, or do you need me to come get you?"

"I don't know, Dave. Hang on." Before Meg had her phone fully away from her face, Sarah had tossed the car keys back over to her.

"Just put gas in it. Go." She opened the driver's side door, shutting it after Meg got in, and passing her handfuls of candies and cigarettes over to her. "Don't forget your shit, either. Lighter's in the pack."

Dave threw a blanket over Randy, who hadn't stopped shivering. He couldn't move him; Randy flinched no matter how or where he was touched. Now it was a waiting game; Meg was still on the phone, but was stuck in highway traffic. What they all assumed would be a fast trip was stretching into an interminable wait. Every so often, Randy turned bleary eyes up to Dave, who could only look down with pity and whisper that she was coming, would be there soon, was driving right then.

"Meg, is there any way for you to get off the highway? Or are you between ramps?"

"I'm not just between ramps, there _are no _ramps. It's just lanes. I'm stuck. I think it's an accident. I _know_ it's an accident." She cringed; she didn't want to see it or drive past it.

Dave, reading the tension in her voice, tried to work her through it. "Just breathe, hon. When you get there, just keep your eyes forward, okay? Maybe it'll be gone by the time you get there." _'This is _not_ what I need. She's going to be either hysterical or catatonic when she gets here, and he's already non-functional.'_

Meg shifted irritably. Her bones ached just thinking about the idea of a highway accident. Jackson's bloody fingers caressed her neck and played in her hair, and she was sure she looked insane to the people slow-cruising next to her as she swatted at the spectre in the car with her. "How is he doing, Dave?"

"How? Meg, I don't even know _what._" Dave cast a sidelong glance at Randy. If it wasn't for the shiver coursing through him, he otherwise appeared comatose. Dave couldn't get him to accept ice or water, couldn't get him to roll from his side to his back, couldn't get him to stretch flat or sit up, nothing. And it wasn't a simple case of Randy being uncooperative – it was as though he wasn't mentally present, wasn't hearing Dave's voice at all.

"Can I talk to him? Please?" _'It's as much for me as for him. I see the lights up ahead. I can't. I'm in the wrong lane. I have to go past it. It's right there.' _Jackson's hands tightened in Meg's hair.

"He's...not talking, Meg. You can talk _at_ him. But I wouldn't expect a conversation."

"I'll take it." Meg's words were choked, and she heard Dave rustling in the background.

Dave tried his best to get Randy's attention. "Hey, you with me? Your Meggie's on the phone. She wants to talk to you. I guess just listen, right? She knows you don't feel good, so it's okay if you don't say anything. She's on her way." He placed the phone near Randy's mouth on the off-chance he did try to talk, and set it to speaker. "Hey, Meg? Try to talk him into doing something helpful, like taking some ice. He's scaring me. And you know I don't say that shit lightly. I'm gonna go try to work his outside lights and get the doors unlocked." Dave's footfalls grew distant, and Meg breathed deeply, trying to steady her nerves.

"Hey, Ran. You listening to Dave?" She heard shaky breathing, but nothing else despite leaving an ample pause. "If you can, try and take some ice, okay? You know I'm just going to make you take it when I get there." Meg sniffled, half-amused, half-serious. _'What happened to you?'_ She heard a dry groan, and snapped back into the conversation, such that it was.

"Hon? Please, talk to me. I'm coming. I'm coming right now." She squeezed her eyes shut, hard, and let go a shaky breath. "I wish I was there already. I wish I just ignored you earlier and showed up when you said you didn't want me, because I have to drive by this fucking accident, and it's bad, and you know what? I'm scared. All of this shit was always _better_ when you were there with me, even when I was seeing things. I know you knew. You were just nice enough not to say anything." The lights from the ambulance and police cars were in her car now, and she could feel Jackson's blood dripping down her face. Much like her accident, the car was crushed into the concrete median, a white sheet covering part of the windows. A whimper escaped her throat, and she ducked her head down involuntarily. "_Please_, Randy. I don't have the right to ask you for fucking _anything. _I'm so sorry. I never-"

"Meg? Hey, Meg!" Dave's voice yelled at a distance, and Meg clapped her mouth shut so hard that her teeth clicked together. "Meg, you there?" The phone slid across the floor, Dave apologizing to Randy for taking it. "Hon? Still there?"

Meg kept her head low til she was well past the accident, despite driving at normal highway speeds. "Yeah. Yeah Dave, I'm here." Her voice was completely atonal.

"I got the outside lights on, and there's space in the driveway. I called up to the gatehouse, too, so they should just let you in. You doing okay?"

"I'll be there in a few." Meg cut the line off.

Dave rolled his eyes and tossed his phone over Randy onto the bathroom counter. "You're stuck with me til she gets here, Randy. And she's fucked up now, too." He stepped around to Randy's face and offered him ice, but he still refused to move his lips. "And, in case you're counting, you've been laying in your bathroom doorway all day. It would be good if you could, I don't know, move."

_'Dave, she's not here. She says she's coming, and when she does, I'll fuck up again. You'll be here, so she won't really talk to me – she can't, it's not how she works – and even if she does, I'll fuck up. It's the one thing I'm good at. Always have been. She's afraid of me. She went back to Joe, and he's going to use her and break her. She won't let me pick up the pieces again. There won't even be pieces left this time. How did I fuck this up with her? The one thing I wanted to do right, tried to do right, and no.'_

Randy felt his eyes roll back in his head as a doorbell rang distantly, and he decided in that moment that as much as he wanted to care that Meg came, it was caring that let him break his own heart in the first place.


	19. The Devil's Swimming Pools

Welcome opaque_daydream, Cougar3371, and lookingglassalice6! :)

For those of you who have lost your story subscriptions, I will be PMing you individually to explain and apologize. I can only hope you choose to stick with Analeptic and Malum. There are other stories in the works, so please don't lose faith in me as a writer.

Oh - and I was asked in PM - every chapter title (I'm about to replace the titles in Malum) has a meaning. You might have to dig a little, or use the Google-Fu, but there's always a rhyme and reason to it. I'm sneaky that way. This one has an in-chapter reference, and the pictures that go along with what they actually are, are mind-blowing.

Finally: nattiebroskette has written an amazing, lovely, wonderful, hot-hot story, "Shielded"

You all should go check it out, especially if you're an Ambrose fan. *wink, nudge* Plus, she held my hand through this entire chapter (by which I mean, kicked my ass and told me to stop being afraid of the smut), so without her, there would be no woo-woo. GO TEAM NATTIE!

Content warning. For those of you who have been PM'ing with me, he is "interruptus" no more. ;)

* * *

><p>"Dave, you can leave. If anything happens, it's not like I can't call you. All we can do now is wait, and you need sleep more than I do. Remember when I had a job doing this? You always dumped me on night watch. So, I'm night watching. Go the fuck to sleep. You're gonna have to deal with triage at some point, it's after a pay show. And remember, I'm not supposed to be here? Don't make yourself complicit."<p>

"Why do you have to argue about _everything_?" He dropped both of his medics' bags heavily near the head of the bed, but Randy didn't so much as twitch.

"Because I'm right. And because he wasn't listening to you anyway, so it doesn't make a fucking bit of difference what you want. Now _go_. He's still knocked out, and when he wakes up, he's going to be a bear." Her voice was a wavering combination of anger, stress, and fear. _'And I want to talk to him, but...not around you.'_

Slowly, unobtrusively, Randy swam up to the conversation from what felt like a great depth of water. His eyes burned, even while closed. His ears were ringing, and every inch of his body ached, but he held still and said nothing.

"Meg, I'm not leaving. Period. When you need help – and you will – I need to be _here_. Not ten rooms away in a house I don't know." Dave was fast losing his temper. He'd spent the entire day watching Randy decompensate, and against his better judgment had waited for Meg. To be told that his opinion wasn't needed on Randy – especially when Randy told him that his opinion on Meg wasn't needed – was one step too far. "Plus...corporate gave me an assistant, and I left him in charge."

She pushed Dave away from the bed, toward the door of the first-floor guest room. Randy's numerous stories about Sam's exiling him there while they were 'working things out' had given Meg a general idea of where to head toward on the ground floor. Randy was nearly dead-weight while she and Dave moved him, but getting him up to a bed made him easier overall to deal with.

"You are _ridiculous_! Do you hear me?" Meg was hissing, trying to keep her voice low and make the entire interaction quick. "I'm going back _in there_, you're _leaving_, and if you think you can do better you can do it _alone._" She cocked her head to the side. "And congrats on the hired help. Were you _ever_ going to tell me?"

"Meg, stop. Stop!" Dave spun to face her. "Have you looked at yourself? You walked in here white as a ghost, probably from that shit on the highway. I'm not saying you can't take care of him. I'm saying I'm _trying_ to take care of _you._ Is that such a bad thing? I know I can't do shit for Randy; why do you think I called you and left the other guy in charge?"

Meg stammered, but gave up on words and arguments, settling for a defeated sigh. She raked her hands through her hair and looked back into the room, not liking the amount of noise and shuffling she was hearing from the bed. "Okay. Okay, Dave. You're right, and I'm overreacting."

So...what do you want to do?" Dave dragged his toe across the carpet in the hallway, not sure if he should look down or at Meg.

"I want to talk to him. Can you please at least let me do that? He won't care if you stay in the den. It's close by; it's not like you can get lost." Meg's voice went from angry to pleading, and Dave's resolve slipped.

"Meg, right now, you need to swear to me, if anything changes, you come get me."

"Dave, just...Jesus Christ. Go the _fuck _to bed. I want to talk to him. Just go."

"_You _go, before I change my mind." Dave rolled his eyes and walked away, pushing the door to the guest room fully open as he passed. "And don't think I'm not going to come in there and check on you, either."

* * *

><p>Meg scrambled back inside the room, annoyed the conversation with Dave had taken much longer than she wanted, and positive she'd heard Randy trying to move. Correct on the second count, she had to hold him by the shoulders and throw herself bodily into fighting him down from an attempt at sitting up.<p>

"Ran, no. No! Shh, hey. Stop." She stroked his jawline gently, avoiding the row of bruises Joe had left there, and squeezed his shoulder before rubbing it, the same way he'd done for her a hundred times at the resort. "Ran, focus. C'mon, Ran, try to calm down. It's me." He stilled, thinking, then relaxed slightly.

"Welcome back, Ran. Just relax, keep breathing." _'Stay with me. Focus, please. I'm here now. If you don't want me to go, I'm here. If you do want me to go, too bad – I'm not leaving again.' _Meg threw her hair back into a quick ponytail, trying to keep it out of her face while she worked.

She continued, quietly, trying to slowly move his face away from hers into a position he could focus from. "You had me worried. I'm sorry about getting you up on the bed...we – me, I mean, and Dave – probably didn't do your back any favors. Here – here's some ice." She slipped her hand from his jaw to the highball she'd filled with ice chips and left on the bedside table, fishing a few out, gently sliding a few small shards past his lips. Randy shivered, and Meg pulled a blanket up to cover him. "Can't believe I didn't wake you up; I think I damned near pounded ice cubes through your kitchen counter before I realized your freezer had a dispenser for small ones in the door. Couldn't accuse me of being smart, huh?"

"Meggie?" Randy groped blindly forward, then up for her hand, feeling for the cold spot she left on his shoulder, his voice hoarse and his eyes unfocused. She pressed herself into him, trying to leverage her scant weight into keeping him still, but he kept forcing himself against her, trying to get up.

"Ran, where are you trying to go? What do you need? I can get it for you...just rest, okay?" _'Why are you fighting me?'_

Randy felt a creeping, unsettled panic come over him. Meg was _there_, but her voice was everywhere and nowhere at once. The echo in his head was unbearable, almost unreal, and he couldn't understand why he was hearing her so distantly. _'It's like she's...not here? Dave. Dave had the phone.'_ "Meg, no. S-stop. Don'- don't...When are y-you..." He pushed her back, hard, and she flew over the edge of the bed to the floor, landing with an oof. His eyes still couldn't focus and he was only vaguely aware that her outline had dropped from his view. He pounded his fists against the bed, completely uncoordinated, while Meg struggled to get her legs underneath her. She dragged herself back up in front of him, wincing when her collarbone popped, but pushing his hands down onto the blankets all the same.

"Randy, stop it! One of us is going to get hurt." _'He's got to be half-dreaming. Got to be. Dehydrated, low blood sugar, something, but he is completely. Fucked. Up.'_

Momentarily, Randy's eyes found Meg's face. "You're h-here?"

"Yeah, dumbass, I'm here. Can you _please_ sit still now? We're gonna get hurt and I'm-"

Randy nearly fell over her, trying to drag her forward and up, and he hissed from the pain in his side. Meg, rolling her eyes at his sheer stubbornness, coordinated with his movement as much as possible, entirely convinced he was out of his mind. "Okay, slow down. Seriously, slow it down." He stared down at her warily, his face perilously close to hers. "I'm staying, Randy. With you. You were right, and I-"

Adrenaline shot through his body. _'Meg's really here. She thinks I was right about...something. She's staying. I'm not fucking it up. Neither is she.'_

His arms locked around her, and Meg had to lean away from him to have any idea what expression was riding his face. Randy's skin was sallow and bruised, and he looked exhausted, but a vague smile was playing at his lips. Meg tried to shift her weight around his lap, in an effort to take pressure away from his ribs, but he pinned her in place. Giving up, she sighed, reached for the highball of ice, and held it between them.

"-and I fucked up, Randy. Let me try to fix it."

"You're h-here?"

"Yeah, Ran. _I'm_ here, and _you_ were right." She held more ice to his lips, and watched it melt down her fingers while she waited for him to make up his mind as to whether or not he would accept it. "The question is, was _I_ right?"

He looked at her blankly, and shakily pulled the ice from her fingertips before putting it in his mouth.

"Was I right about you hating me?" She whispered, and cast a backwards glance over her shoulder, in the general direction of Dave and the open door.

"N-no, Meg." He turned her to face him, leaving his hand against her cheek, his face awash in confusion and their pause in speech heavy in the air. "I was right?"

"Yeah, about a lot of things. Dunno where to even start, Ran...just...a lot of things." She rested her hands gently on his chest, pushing slightly, testing to see if he'd accept some gentle guidance back onto the bed. "Lay down with me? So we can talk? I want you to rest." _'You went through this entirely because I'm a self-centered cunt. You have to tell me what to do from here.'_

"You too, Meg." He let her tilt him back, but his grip never wavered. The only allowance he made for her movement was to let her lay next to him.

The silence was gentle now; Randy wanted it to go on for the rest of the night as his fingers slowly trailed through her hair. Minutes passed and stretched; every movement was a tremendous effort for him to coordinate and organize, and he doubted Meg would let him get away with much more introspection. _'Why am I this twitchy? Everything hurts. I feel sick.'_

"Hey, Ran?" Meg shook her hand over the carpet, watching droplets of water from the melted ice fling out into the room. "Feeling any better? Ice helping?" She kept her voice small and quiet, not wanting to break apart too much of their comfortable stillness.

"Sorta. Ice's h-hel...it's good."

Meg sniffled, disbelieving, and turned from her side to look more closely at him, trying to subtly stretch out her ribs while she moved. "You wore yourself out. Your body is just...tired. You didn't sleep – I know that from Dave. Probably didn't eat, right?"

Randy tried to look anywhere but in her eyes, knowing he'd give himself away. "'m fine." He shifted uncomfortably underneath Meg, not from her weight but from her directness.

"Randy. Seriously? You're so tired, or hungry, or both, that you're literally shaking. I want to get some sugar tabs in you, at a minimum, more water, I need to take a look at your back and your ribs, you need-"

"S'hup, Meg." _'Idiot. You said _not_ fucking it up, Randy.'_

Surprisingly, Meg's mouth flew closed. She tilted her head and looked at him as though she'd never seen him before, as though something about him had become radically different in the last five seconds, and if she didn't inspect it fully in that particular moment she'd never understand it.

"Meggie...sorry. I'm-"

"-tired. Of my bullshit. I'm done. I know."

Defeat was in her eyes. "Ice is on the table. You can kick me out in the morning." She closed her eyes and laid back where she'd popped up from, but not before inhaling deeply, as though trying to instill his scent in her memory. Randy, having neither the answers nor the energy to argue with, pulled her ever-so-slightly closer to him, dropped his chin onto the top of her head, and waited for sleep.

True to his word, Dave checked on them after a few hours had passed, rolling his eyes when he found them heaped together in the bed. _'Because that's going to help her ribs or your back, you two fools. I can't leave either of you alone, can I?' _He trundled to the kitchen and peeled a paper towel off the roll, leaving a note for Meg, which he deposited on the bedside table where she'd be likely to see it:

_'M-_

_Had to run. Triage call. Told you they hired an idiot. Will be back eventually._

_Please, be dressed._

_D.'_

* * *

><p>Meg woke a few hours later, stiff and aching from being crammed tightly between Randy's arm and chest, but thankful he had finally slept. As the night wore on, he'd rolled further and further over her, pulling her further and further up his body and into the crook of his neck. Slowly, in the inverse of what he'd done, she worked her way down and then out from under his arm, smiling as he grumbled but didn't wake. <em>'Grouchy and asleep like the dead. He seems a little better, anyway.'<em> Seeing the note, she perched on the edge of the bed, reaching out to check the folded bit of toweling. _'Hm. Poor Dave. It's too bad I can't come back to help him, but...burnt that bridge.' _Tossing the paper back onto the table, Meg inspected her clothing. Wrinkled and definitely smelling like she'd spent the previous 18 hours smoking, driving, arguing, and sleeping under someone's unshowered arm, she crinkled her nose.

She was vaguely aware of Randy's weight shifting behind her, and reached unconsciously back for him. Meg wasn't prepared for how hard he pushed her arm down, and she turned to face him, worried something was wrong. He'd propped himself up on one elbow, his other arm now occupied with pinning her hand to the bed. Meg felt a strange mix of hot and cold come over her, and realized she had no idea what to do.

"Randy...what's go-"

His hand, first pressing hers into the bed, slid up her arm and settled briefly on her shoulder, only for his fingers to change course and trace a light line just underneath her collarbone and up her neck, then thread their way back down to her hand. Meg could feel a wordless, expressionless maelstrom rise in her body – it came with sounds, to be sure, but they were staccato, breathy, didn't fit anything that fit her and Randy. In the time it took for her to understand that she didn't understand, he'd pulled her forward by her shirt, taking the bottom half up and nearly off of her, nearly dragging her on top of him in the process.

"Ran...wait...what..."

_'God, sleep helped. Water, ice, whatever – helped. I needed you; you helped.' _She felt peach-skin soft under his fingers; damp from nerves.

"Meg, help me?" He continued pulling at her shirt to take it off; she moved with his the entire time, but she never stopped asking 'what' over and over. _'I know you trust me. You let me do this much before. Now I need you to let me do the rest.'_ His hands drifted along the soft plane of her stomach, drawing a full-body shiver from her that finally silenced her questions. Meg's eyes crushed closed as his hands trailed upward, crossing the scar on her ribs, the fullness of her breasts, the angles of her shoulderblades as he pulled her closer to him, and then stopped, questioningly, his hands still solidly behind her.

Her perfume was stale; so was his cologne, and she knew her hair was hanging lopsided out of her ponytail – a quick, sidelong glance upward told her as much. Her clothing was slept-in and rumpled, and she was acutely aware of how cold the air in the room had become. Meg never was able to find the thermostat, and the whole house was consumed by the outdoor chill. She grabbed blindly at the bottom of her shirt, not daring to look, trying to pull it down around her – but strangely, not trying to move him away. Randy dropped his hands from behind her and gently held her wrists still, trying to get Meg to stop moving both her body and her mind.

"Listen to me. I don't care."

Meg's eyes flew open, then she forced them shut again, unable to look at Randy and not understanding what he meant.

"Meg. _Listen._ I _don't_ care. I know what you did, and I don't care. All that shit with Jackson, you walking out, the car, causing the accident, whatever else you think you did, or know you did, I just don't care. Whatever it was, you did it, it's done, and if you would just fucking _stay _here so I can-"

All the time Meg had spent with Randy had given her a frightening proprioceptive ability where he was concerned – he was faster, stronger, but not often sneakier than her. In the split seconds it took her to process what he was saying, what the hot-cold feeling traveling across her body was, where his hands were, that her eyes still hadn't opened, she realized she knew exactly where his mouth was and that he didn't need to say anything more. Meg's hands slipped from Randy's grasp and flew up to his face, bird-wing light, her fingers across his cheekbones like snowflakes, and she chanced her lips against his.

_'It's all...done. It's all done and he's not leaving. He doesn't want me to leave, either.'_

Now was Randy's turn to be silent; he was briefly unsure if he'd imagined Meg's kiss and was a half-second too slow in responding. Meg pulled back, her face an ugly mix of fear and hot embarrassment, and moved to push herself back from him.

"No, no, wait. I wasn't sure, Meg, and I don't want to fuck up anything. Please?" Randy pulled her elastic from her hair, letting it fall around her face. "Meggie, look at me." He tried to tilt her up to look at him, brush her hair back, but she pushed his hands down and tried to ferret away from his lap. _'Oh my God, Meg, not now, please don't do this to me now.'_

In every interaction he'd had with Meg since she'd come back from New Orleans, Randy had been gentle, reserved, even what could be considered self-sacrificing, but all of the pieces on the board had been broken, nevermind rearranged, now that she'd moved on him. Much more roughly than he meant, Randy pulled Meg up to him, over his lap and into his chest, and gave them both no option but to let their lips meet again. Meg struggled, largely out of fear, and Randy broke away from her only long enough to whisper to her to calm down, trust him, before pulling her up to meet him in a kiss for a third time.

Meg's mind was sent flying off its already precariously-balanced axis. Shame had given way to terror had given way to flashes of memories from their time together on the bay, each one more delicious than the last, until she stop-motion-reeled her thoughts to their last night in bed, Randy thick between her legs, her body a tense band waiting to snap, and still neither one of them had crossed the line. It was that nuanced mental re-enactment that caused her slowly to shift, then rise, suddenly pull, then urge him on, her hands and legs with minds of their own, all while she was in his lap in bed, and it was Randy's deep groan that threw Meg back into reality. Looking for all the world like she was high, Meg shoved herself back from Randy and snatched her shirt off before leaning back in and nipping a slow trail up the side of his neck, her cold fingers curling around his arms, pulling her against him.

_'Careful...you don't go from terrified to turned on that fast...'_ "Meggie...hang on...everything okay?"

Confusion reigned on Meg's face, and she leaned away. "Isn't this...isn't this what you want?"

"I want you to feel okay with this. You're not just some...whatever, you know? Some _thing. _You're mine. I want this to be right."

"And parts of it won't be, and just...I don't know. I can stop if you want?"

Randy laid back with her, and did his best not to wince at his ribs and back. "I want it to be _right_. Whatever that means."

"Then just...go easy on me. And shut up."

Randy smiled, relief evident. _'Okay. Go easy. Mine. She's staying. Everything else I can learn as I go.' _Meg slid down his chest, avoiding his side, feeling his hands run over her back as she moved, though he caught her by the waist of her jeans before she could shift as far as she wanted.

"These come off."

Wordlessly, fully aware he was watching, Meg rose to her knees over him and let him unbutton, unzip, slide, and then sat back so he could ease the denim down her legs, drifting a finger dangerously close to the circular scar on her thigh. Randy's warm hands closed around her shins, and he pulled her up the bed so she straddled him, her legs sliding open, her laughter quiet as he towed her towards him.

"You're lucky I'm flexible." Meg pressed herself against his chest, raking her nails upward. "A lesser woman couldn't get on top of you that fast." Her arms snaked around the back of his neck, and she returned to the trail of nips and kisses she had started, feeling Randy's hands on her hips, urging her forward, closer, lower. Meg was tentative, and she felt her a metallic, electric sting fly through her body, half pushing her nearer and half pulling her back.

_'Meg, just go with it. Trust him. You've always trusted him.'_

His thumbs rolled under the bands of her panties, just over her hips, and he used the fabric to pull her completely over him. Meg's hands braced against the headboard, and Randy began a series of torturously slow, firm kisses along her collarbones, hearing her whimper when he hovered over her scar.

"Meg, do you feel me?" He brought his hips up to meet her, and she rolled her hips back over his, almost involuntarily, not knowing what was compelling her to move and entirely uninterested in stopping it. _'Because Jesus, Meg, I feel you. Not enough of you, but please let me. Please, please, let me.'_

She nodded, but couldn't manage words. Everything was tangled now; sounds were scents, scents were visible, the things she was seeing were deeply, indescribably blue, like Randy's eyes. The friction Meg created as she moved was nearly intolerable; Randy decided if he couldn't bare himself, he might be able to bare her and see if she'd follow her own lead.

"If you feel me," he continued, continuing to gently kiss a trail across her collarbone, trying to mend what he couldn't see and didn't know, "Then...can I feel you?"

Meg's mind hummed with possibility; Randy continued to slowly work his mouth over whatever was available to him, carefully pushing her back with each kiss, fingers still tangled in the band of her panties, holding her scant weight as he tilted her further over the bed, her hands leaving the headboard in favor of clinging to his neck again, letting him take her over backwards.

"Can I?" Calling his voice was a whisper would be generous; the only reason Meg could hear him was because he was laying over her. She felt the waist of her panties tighten and slide as he pulled at it, and finally she understood – he meant for them to come off. One of her hands left his neck, tracing the long line of his arm, clasping around his wrist.

"Yeah, but...I will." Her grip on his wrist never wavered. Randy relaxed his hands, smoothed the fabric over her hips, and Meg took a few deep breaths and let go of him. Slowly, and with him focused on her face and not her body, she slipped the scant bit of pastel cotton down, toeing it past her shins, with Randy adjusting around her to allow her to move. "Your turn," Meg breathed, as he settled back over her, content to simply hold her and wait to be sure she was calm.

She pressed up into him once, gently encouraging, and Randy hid his face in the curve where shoulder became neck, where Meg always started when she put on her perfume, fearful she'd seen his expression. _'Slow. Down. Slow down. This isn't like when you had all that time. This is after a fight and after reports and after knowing what he did to her and after saying it doesn't matter but you _know _it matters to her. Slow. Down.' _Keeping his head burrowed into that perfect slope, again afraid to meet her eyes, he shifted his hands towards his waistband.

"Wait."

Randy froze. "What's wrong, Meggie?"

"Can I?" She sounded half-afraid, half-shamed to even ask, but somewhere in her voice was a thin lilt of hope. "But...help me?"

Working deep kisses – and having no idea how she'd feel about bites, gentle or otherwise – into her neckline, he broke away just long enough to hover over her and bring them both to their knees on the bed, trying to account for their difference in height and reach. Meg flinched, hard, and the whimper she made told him he'd needed to actually answer her question.

"C'mere, Meg. Your hands." _'Control. What can she do, what will I do next.'_

Randy reached for her and pressed her palms against his waistband, but couldn't force down the hard shiver that followed. He closed his fingers around hers, bunching the fabric together, and carefully, slowly, pushed her hands down. Meg stopped, did nothing, looked at him quizzically, and when she read nothing hateful in his face, gently slipped his boxers to his knees.

"Lay back? You asked me something earlier." Meg's lithe frame pressed fully, even eagerly against his body, and Randy was only too happy to wrap an arm around her waist and pull her on top of him as he leaned back into the pillows, letting her fuss and fret his boxers the rest of the way down as they moved, skin still like alabaster, just as he remembered, and colder than marble.

"I did?"

Meg's eyes never moved from his; they were fixed in place in a way that hovered between gentle and hollow. _'And can I fill that, Meg? Nothing's broken, just empty.'_

"You can feel me." She pulled one of Randy's hands up to her face, his fingers tangling in her hair on the way, his touch tentative at first, almost fearful. Meg felt a sad, simple smile play at the corners of her lips, and she reached for his other hand, pulling it onto her hip, up over her waist, then arching herself just enough to guide his hand between them, then lower, but hovering not quite low enough.

_'Oh. OH. Oh God. Meg, please be sure. Please? For both of us, be sure?' _"Meg...I _can_ feel you...I want to...but please...not until you tell me..."

He was asking, nearly babbling, for the one thing Meg didn't have words for anymore, couldn't say yes to, but could show him and so she did what she could with what she had – what was left of her body. She kissed his fingertips, nipped the inside of his wrist, leaned down as far as she could to lave attention on his chest, shoulders, cheekbones, anything she could reach, and then with as much speed as she could manage, guided his other hand lower.

_'Don't think, Meg. Just do. Don't let him think, either.'_

As much time as they'd spent together half-dressed at the bay, as many fantasies as Randy had entertained and then acted upon, nothing had prepared him for the searing contrast between the ice of Meg's inner thighs against the edges of his palm and the blistering heat that was the rest of her, at the moment – the entirety of her – dazzling his fingers. He didn't know if he should move, look, breathe, do more or less, and then it occurred to him – he should do nothing.

Slowly, not realizing how much fear could compound pain, Meg began to draw her face down from the ceiling, willing her neck to bend forward from the fishhook shape it had assumed when she'd thrown it back and trusted herself to his hands. Slower still came the motions she remembered, beyond those came the ones she enjoyed. At first, he was terrified he'd done something to hurt her after watching her head snap backwards, hearing her strangle for air, and then when her hands died at her sides he was ready to call Dave and admit guilt and beg forgiveness – but she'd come back to him, slowly, her fingers first, moving up his sides, as though knowing his skin would tell her who was or wasn't under her. Randy didn't dare speak, knew he couldn't tell her it was alright – none of it was alright, for either one of them – so he waited, still ready, still a knot of restless urges that demanded a conquered demon – but for now, he had to conquer her breathing and her memories.

Once her hands found a way to relay to the rest of her that this was, in fact, home, Meg seemed determined to prove she could keep house. Fingers not occupied with guiding his found other parts of him to tease and ply; Randy dying a bit more each time her grip tightened, her arc changed, her smile against his lips tilted, or he found her tongue as a satin pillow against some new part of him. He'd barely realized she'd gone towards and then over her edge until she lunged forward and locked her elbow around the side of his neck, banging into the headboard both of them had forgotten they were against, a series of short, panting breaths deafening him, eventually turning into something he recognized as her asking, please.

He wasn't far behind her, he had to concede. She'd started to move off of his hand, but hadn't given any indication of what was next. _'Please what? Meg, help me out here...'_

Meg leaned in, pinning Randy in place with her gaze – hazy and sated, she looked as though she was debating between eating him and kissing him, still riding the high he'd sent her on. "One more thing, Ran?" _'Just let me, don't ask me, just go with me...'_

Not knowing if Meg was looking for permission or acquiescence, Randy opted for quiet passivity and slumped back, palms up, hoping he looked as gentle as he felt. Meg crawled up his chest, cupping his chin, both of them starting to feel the exhaustion settling into their bodies. "Trust me," she whispered, looking at him and beyond him simultaneously, "I want this."

Gently, firmly, as though knowing all along where he'd be – and why not, he was hers – Meg settled back over Randy's lap, eyes suddenly drained of anything resembling feeling, pain or otherwise. Randy looked at her in disbelief, then fear, then – not knowing what to do with the pyretic, intoxicating, choking feeling that hadn't just spread, but jumped across his body – fell forward across her as she eased onto him, pillows forgotten, desperate to hide her, protect her, keep her for himself even if it meant crushing her under him. It didn't matter, he was buried in her, she was buried under him, and it was all like a mobius loop in his mind.

When she moved and he finally dared look, there was the feeling. Buried, put under so much for so long she'd had to dive to find it and be sure it was for him before she surfaced. She pushed, really _pushed _herself when she came up against him from underneath, caused a massive shift in angles, everything slid, walls and the alphabet slid, and he was lost in moving back against her in a rhythm that came so naturally to both of them it was like they'd simply picked up their slow two-step where they'd left off at the elevator. No reminders, no please-can-you-move-a-little, just a simple, languid, long-stroked, soft-handed, resonantly felt yet quietly sounded trust; what both of them had realized for years was just before the edge of the falls.

Perfectly exhausted, verging on deliciously numb, Meg knew her body couldn't carry her twice, and at the same time didn't know her body could carry him at all. Serpentine, her arms trailed down his back and across his shoulders, first pulling her up to him, whispering, then pulling him down to her, her legs woven through his, and when she caught his eyes she offered the smallest wisp of a smile. Her skin damp, Randy smoothed her hair from her face, tendrils trailing across her cheeks and down her neck, and the shadows and light that played through his body raced lower until they tangled, detonated, and he knew his grip slammed around her shoulders far too hard. By the time sound registered with him, and he was sure that moving wouldn't cause him to turn to ash, Meg was blindly tracing fingertip patterns across the back of his neck, half-asleep underneath him, quietly, slowly humming along to the piano from the lobby at the resort. Randy smiled into her neck.

"I remember that night." His lips confused words with kisses as he spoke against her skin, and he felt her shoulders twitch with her silent laugh. _'Oh, don't do that, Meg. I want to stay where I am. With you. In you.'_

"Mmm. And I'm going to remember this night."

"Just _this_ night?"

"Depends. I _did_ say you could kick me out in the morning."

Randy groaned, but reached up to ruffle her hair as he'd done so many times in the past. "Meg...you came home. Here. Stay a while, okay?"

Her eyes, bright and warm, said nearly as much as her kiss, which told him more than her words would have in response.

* * *

><p>They were idiots, to be sure; had run for too long from what both of them knew was happening naturally around them and required no histrionics or dramatics, no festering or fertilizing – they'd dangled within arm's reach of each other, grabbed on when they'd both needed it, and then somehow fallen, and no amount of mutual stupidity would change it. A night's worth of sleep interspersed with wordless requests from each other's bodies would surely cement it, though.<p> 


	20. Round Two, Around Two?

Thank you, everyone, for reading and reviewing! Off we go!

* * *

><p>Nothing ached the next morning. Even the shaking was gone, and judging by the amount of gritty sweetness coating his teeth, Meg had slipped a few glucose tabs under his tongue as he slept. <em>'She's too light to make my back hurt. She moves with me. Fits with me. And apparently, doses me.'<em> Reflexively, Randy felt himself twitch, then rise, and he smiled even though he feared he'd spoil Meg if he kept after her. She turned in his arms, pawing blindly against him as she slept, a satisfied half-smile on her face. A slight shiver caused her to press in closer, and Randy thought he'd rather die than give up feeling the rise and fall of her backbone between his fingers and her breasts against his chest. He fished for the blanket Meg had pulled over him when she'd brought in the ice chips, and found it bunched at the edge of the bed. He covered her enough for decency, and settled himself comfortably around her.

* * *

><p>A few hours later, surprised by the stillness of not just the room, but her mind, Meg stared directly into the hollow, black eyes of one of the skulls in Randy's tattoos, and felt nothing. She followed the contour of each muscle, nearly touching him, eying each sinew in his arm, tracing their outlines down to his wrist, the creases in his palm, how each finger bent and how she bent with him, willingly, last night. His breathing was peace against her, as was the blanket, and she knew it wasn't only her trust between them in bed, but his. Hooking the blanket around her leg and shoving it away from her, she pulled his arm in closer.<p>

It was hours more before they woke up, both hunting for a kiss before any words could be said.

* * *

><p>Dave was not known for subtlety. He'd left the front door unlocked, told Meg he was coming back, left a note with specific directions regarding clothing, and was overall very clear about what he did not want to find when he came back to check on them. His texts and calls had gone unanswered, which he'd expected. Meg was notorious for ignoring her phone, and Randy's battery had probably long since died. Pressing on his car horn firmly enough to hopefully alert them both to his presence without irritating the neighbors, Dave parked his car and proceeded to bang loudly on the front door before opening it.<p>

The entire first floor was dark and soundless. It was like walking into a vacuum; nothing moved. The air was cold, sound died as soon as it crossed the threshold of the door. Dave felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. _'Something's not right. I fucking told her to call me, and if they ended up at a hospital I swear to God I'm going to give them both a real reason.' _His thick legs propelled him through the lower level of the house. He checked the den, then the kitchen, each scenario he considered worst than the last, not stopping to consider that even at the early afternoon hour, Meg and Randy could still reasonably be asleep or in bed.

Finally banging the bedroom door open in a dead panic, Dave let out a howl that propelled birds from the pool deck, sent Meg into a shrieking fit of laughter, and caused Randy to let loose with a string of rapid-fire-fuck-you's.

* * *

><p>Blankets and clothing long forgotten but a nest of pillows built at the headboard, Randy now lay on his back in the middle of the bed, one arm behind his head, one arm across Meg, occasionally sliding his hand down to trace circles over the curve where her lower back arched up into the spread of her hips, or to circle the low dimples flanking the crest of her spine. He propped one leg up between her and the door, as if to shield her from what might come in, his other leg simply relaxed on the bed.<p>

Meg, after much coaxing on his part, laid low over Randy. She balked, first because of the thought she'd be too heavy, earning a laugh from him, then because she didn't want to hurt his back, but his easy smiles and protestations that he couldn't kiss her from across the bed won her over. No matter how long she stayed on top of him, her skin never warmed, and she adored the contrast – his heat, her chill. She positioned herself so her hips dropped between his, and every stroke he laid over her lower back earned him an appreciative swirl or press from her. Coupled with her hands trailing across his stomach, tracing the various concave and convex lines of his body, Randy was beginning to feel things knot together and untie themselves simultaneously.

"You're lucky I can't reach lower, Meg. You have no idea what you're doing to me."

"Ran, from where I'm at, I have _every_ idea what I'm doing to you."

The fire that had returned to her voice traveled straight between his thighs, and the throaty moan that followed nearly wrecked Meg without any further touch or motion on his part.

"Tell me what I did to you last night."

The question was both abrupt and loaded, the tone was heavy, and as much as Meg knew Randy wanted the skin-soaked answer, the way his eyes searched hers told her he also wanted the answer that bared her history as much as her body. She planed her hands across his chest, pulling herself up, pressing her hips firmly up against him, and stretched a ladder of kisses up his stomach, then neck, to his mouth, warning him to silence.

"You told me – and showed me – I'm safe here. I'm safe with you. And you let me show you that you're safe with me. That you know I won't hurt you." She paused. "And you were...it was..." Meg didn't know how to say what needed to come next. _'How do I tell you that you didn't hurt me? That it was right? That it feels like it's supposed to – and not like it's not supposed to?' _She shook her head. "I don't know how to say it, Ran." Meg leaned in and kissed him again, gently, not knowing if he was upset, disappointed, hurt, or just sick of it all.

"Tell me I didn't hurt you. That it felt good. Tell me it was right, Meg. Please?" The quaver in his voice was unmistakeable, and Meg pulled back to see an incredible depth of fear and hurt in his eyes.

"Jesus Christ, Randy. Listen to me." Meg laid fully over him, pressing her face next to his. _'I know better, right now. You're hurting, and not in the way where you want me in your face like that' _"You listen to me. Right now. You didn't hurt me. Do you understand...Randy..." Meg exhaled so heavily into the mattress that Randy could feel a weight come off of her that neither realized she'd been carrying. "Randy, I haven't _felt_ anything in so long...it felt right, and I wanted to do that since we were at the bay, but I didn't know I could. Now I can. So please. Please. Don't do that to yourself. This is right." Slowly, she tilted just enough to kiss a short, slow row down his jawline, knowing he'd guide her into the rest when he was ready.

The arm that was around Meg's back snaked up to her shoulders and moved her up to kiss him, the fear in his eyes replaced by something much more cloudy. Meg obliged him, then settled back between Randy's legs, gyrating left and right as she adjusted her position lower, watching his eyes close again and his face ease. Seeing the tension drain from him, she continued – there was, after all, a question she didn't answer.

"You felt like sunlight, Ran. Warm and simple. I could relax. I could let go. I could trust you – what I saw, what I felt, it was there. It was real. No pretense. You wanted to feel me. I was there with you because I enjoyed it. And I know you aren't going to hurt me." His fingers were at it again, tracing up and down her spine, a violin's bow in search of its instrument, and Meg couldn't decide if she wanted to push down against his hips or up into his hands. _'Sneak tactics.'_ She smiled, thankful for his closed eyes, and adjusted her hips one last time, leaving her hands against his stomach, playing with the outlines where shadow crossed striation.

_'Everything's okay. She didn't leave. She's not afraid of me. I did this right, so far. I wonder if-'_ He didn't have time to finish his thought; Meg, in a single deft move that left her no time to adjust or reconsider, ground her hips deeply against his, rose over him, and dropped down. Her knuckles flew up to cover her mouth, her head ducked down to her shoulder, and Randy flew half-up to brace her by the shoulders before she curled entirely forward over herself, though she refused to let him up from his back.

"Meg, _what_ are you-"

She slammed her hand over his mouth, never looking at him, but instead started a series of slow, rise-and-fall movements in his lap, dragging her hand away from his mouth and up the back of his neck, silently directing him to look.

Randy thought he must have died in the night. Dave had come in and beat him to death for being in bed with her, or Joe had fought him and won, maybe a rib had punctured something vital, but for all of his efforts in finding Meg he'd somehow been rewarded with heaven and was watching it in his lap, revealed inch by inch, then disappearing just as slowly. His hands floated over her hips, fingertips walking the ridges of her ribs, thumbs pausing just at the underside of her breasts, and it was there an awareness of his apprehension pulled half a smile from behind Meg's hand, which finally dropped from her mouth.

"Nervous?" She never stopped moving on him, only now her rhythm changed, a slight slide forward when she settled to his base, and it made his thighs clench in a way he couldn't have predicted.

Emboldened, thumbs became hands, and Randy smiled at how well she filled his palms. Meg slid her hands across his, pressing him closer, encouraging him.

"I...yeah, Meg." Cautiously, he rolled his thumbs, stretched and tensed his fingers, and was rewarded with a series of tones that were almost musical and a series of movements that were the definition of ethereal. "Why are you doing this for me?"

The half-smile didn't leave her face; she merely stopped the slight forward slide and added a deeper, reverse drop to the swirls her hips were already engaged in. Randy continued clenching his thighs and added 'dizziness' to his list of Meg-induced symptoms.

"Meg..." The edge in Randy's voice was unmistakeable, the tension in his fingers increased across Meg's breasts, summoning more tones down from heaven's gates and out of her mouth, and he realized he'd never once moved to meet her. He'd watched each hot bead of sweat well up and trail down her skin, felt her burn his nerves down to their bases and through him, and couldn't see anything else besides the diaphanous woman on top of him. It was harder and harder for him to breathe, not because of any pain in his ribs, but because it took his attention away from what she was doing, wasn't doing, might do, and from the strange, crushing feeling that was building and then shooting randomly across his body. Normally not one to prolong the moment, Randy found himself trying to will her to help him wait, suddenly wanting her to fall apart with him, rather than after or not at all, regardless of her original intention.

"No, Randy," Meg panted, "No, you don't. Or...yes, you will." She left his hands where they were and dropped hers lower, one in front and one behind, determined to both give him something to watch and feel while she moved. His eyes snapped forward; the idea of Meg's one hand on herself, working in the smallest of circles, and her other cupping him in her deliciously cold fingers; his hands on her breasts, apparently as she wanted, since she'd left them there, and her hips, still moving, rocking – he was ready to sing her name, cri de coeur, couldn't help himself.

His back arched off the bed, Meg smiled, eyes half-lidded, dishwater winter afternoon light flooded the room, she whispered, "Let go," and he thought if he wasn't dead already he was about to be.

It was that moment, Randy's hands at least having the good sense to stay where they'd been for most of their escapade, that Dave slammed the door open, his bellowed "Hello?" turning directly into an "Oh!" that seemed to carry on for miles and up through octaves that didn't exist before he'd tried them.

* * *

><p>Meg never stopped moving, kindness preventing her from torturing Randy by refusing him his release, and Randy shot up towards her, trying to cover her and hunt down the blanket he knew he'd had earlier. Part of him wanted to lunge at the door and attack, part of him knew anything he did now would hurt Meg by moving too fast and too soon. He screamed at the person in the room, who screamed back at him and then ran; all of it was too much, and it all suddenly stopped when Meg's cool hands wrapped around his face and her body pressed into his. His arms nearly crushed her when they closed around her, but it was all he had to offer until his body, still well aware that her hips were moving, offered the rest.<p>

"Next time, we gotta make sure we lock the door. I think Dave has a concussion."

"Good, maybe he won't remember what he saw."

"Nah, Ran. Your ass is amazing."

Groaning, Randy dropped his head down to her shoulder. "Which one of us gets to deal with him?"

"We both have to. You know that. But, I've known him longer. I'll go first. You go shower." She carefully extricated herself from his lap, both of them hissing as she moved, Randy peppering her with kisses the entire time.

* * *

><p>Dave had charged into the room, charged nearly up to the bed, close enough to get Meg to start outright laughing at the absurdity of the situation, and then turned around to leave so fast he'd run into the narrow edge of the door, banging the side of his head hard enough to stagger himself into the door frame. Woozy, Dave managed his way back to the den, dropped his head into his hands, and waited for the aftermath to find him.<p>

Vaguely, the sound of a shower registered with him, and then a light set of feet padded down the hallway. _'At least it's Meg. I can chew her out and not get punched.'_

"Let me get you something frozen before you start in on it. I know, I know." Meg's hair was hardly tamed by the ponytail she'd thrown it into, and Dave rolled his eyes even though it made hot pokers shoot through his skull.

Returning to the couch with a badly freezer burned cold pack in hand, along with a kitchen towel, Meg pulled her oversized shirt lower before she settled near Dave on the couch.

"Look. I read the note, I know better, I know it's everything you told me not to do, I know it's everything you told him not to do, and I'm sorry you walked in on that. I'm even more sorry I laughed – it was just one of those nervous reflex things where I didn't know what to do and there wasn't any way to stop it so I just-"

"Meg, he loves you."

"Jesus fuck, you're the second person to say that to me."

"And the first one wasn't Randy, was it?" Dave adjusted the towel against his face.

"No. Joe, actually, but I don't think he had the same mind as you in saying it."

"Meg, he's evil. You need to just leave that alone."

"Yeah, I fucked up there, too. I left with him because Randy beat the shit out of him and I was worried there was gonna be a problem because of the surgery – _not_ because I was trying to get with him. I didn't sleep that whole night. Didn't let him touch me, either. Not that way, anyhow. Just laid there and stared at our reflection in the mirror. He dropped his arm over me, and it felt...wrong. Like I was pinned there, but not the right way."

"He's still with his fiancee."

"That, too. I don't know what he's playing at. Randy said something about a phone call setting that whole shitshow off, but we didn't talk about it. Honestly – I still _do_ want to talk to Joe, because I have a lot to settle out with him. He fucked me over, and I want him to answer for that."

"There's the bitch I know and love." Dave chuckled wryly. "But you know that's a bad idea."

Meg picked her nails, silent for several seconds. "I want my job back."

"Maybe."

Meg's head shot up. "Don't fuck with me, Dave."

"And don't say a word to Randy, either, or I'll pull the offer so fast it'll set your ass on fire. Speaking of which, I do not _ever_ want to see your ass again. It's bad enough I have to see his in a professional capacity. And since I had to look at it, what the fuck did they do to you at Oechsner?"

Meg sighed. "I'm only letting you get away with that because I know how you mean it. And because I don't know the answer. That's a question for Randy. I don't know anything. He's got the files. Police, fire, ambulance, hospital, medical, whatever. I haven't asked to see them, and maybe...maybe I don't want to. I can let him touch me. I don't want to change that."

Dave pulled her over to him, laying her across his lap in as brotherly a father-style hug could be. "Then let it lie, Meggie. Let it lie. If he's willing to forget and overlook, then you don't need to pry and know."


	21. Et Te Pater Sanctus Sum

A very special re-welcome to jamiekwilliams9 (FF won't let me use the dots in your username, or it messes up your format);I had a problem with a story-eating troll who can't seem to differentiate between the word "similarity" and the word "plagiarism." My sincere apologies for losing your folllow and favorite, and I'm SO glad to see you back on board!

Also, a double-super-top-secret THANK YOU to the talented, bold, and peerless nattiebroskette, whose opus "Shielded" is absolutely the reason you're seeing a Randy/Meg hookup. Without her, the arc in the past three chapters wouldn't have been possible. My bestie, my muse, my virtual-drinking-buddy: With you, all things text are possible, including ways to say the (p-word) that aren't, y'know, actually saying it. Because I'm bashful.

* * *

><p>Down the hall, Randy turned off the shower and stepped out, wrapping himself in a towel and heading for the kitchen. He rummaged through the fridge just long enough to make a mental note to take Meg to help him grocery shop, and grabbed two bottles of water before moving to the den. <em>'I don't hear them arguing; that's got to be a good sign.'<em> Meg, looking exhausted but pleased, stood as he entered the room.

"I'll let you two...work it out. Turn the heat on in here? I'm freezing." She squeezed Randy's arm and slipped past him before he could do much more than turn toward her, but the smile she threw over her shoulder was reassuring. He watched her sway down the hall, and waited until he heard the door of the bedroom click shut before he squared his shoulders and faced Dave, tossing him a bottle of water and uncapping his own.

"Go ahead."

"Go ahead what?"

Randy opened the water, looked into it as though looking for an answer, and then continued. "I'm an asshole, I'm taking advantage of her, I could hurt myself doing-"

"You're a professional asshole, and you might be taking advantage of her, but it looked pretty much like she was doing all the work. I don't think you're gonna throw your back out. "

Randy's bottle of water fell from his fingers, bouncing open across the carpet, and Dave reached for it before more could spill, not bothering to suppress the grin on his face.

"Well, if you're going to be dumb enough to make the setup, I'm going to make the comment. Plus, I'll take the chance that you won't hit me in front of her. You gonna drink this, or am I gonna hold it for you all day?"

Slowly, Randy reached for what was left of his water, unable to wipe the shocked look off his face.

"Oh, stop." Dave tossed his ice onto the couch and ran his hand over his face. "Look...I really thought about it, especially after Meg tore me a whole series of new assholes. You two have always had some sort of fucked up _thing_ together, and no matter what, it stays together. Friendship, war, near-death experiences, tactical maneuvering, whatever you wanna call it. It's always been right on the edge. You said it changed for you, and guess what? At some point it changed for Meg, too. Only it's Meg, so she was too dumb, or too stubborn, or both, to see it or admit it."

"Okay...but I still didn't say anything to her. That's the one thing I _did_ listen to you about."

Dave plowed ahead, as though he didn't hear Randy speak. "Jackson was a familiar waste of space. She didn't have to think too hard. Joe was Meg's...way of trying to figure _you_ out, maybe? I don't know, I _still _don't understand that one."

Randy still looked completely confused, but felt a bit less like Dave would poison him the next time they ended up alone together in triage. Dave shook his head. "And _I'm_ the one who walked into a door. Look, dumbass. She's always known you fit into her life. I just don't think she knew what to call it, or what to do with it, because she's never had it before. Which is probably why she put up with so much shit from those other two."

"So...you're not going to kill me?"

"If she ends up having a breakdown and, I don't know, running off to Idaho to become a potato farmer because you fuck with her head, then yes. I'm going to kill you. I can't keep dealing with you two. You're going to give me a stroke. Or a concussion." Dave reached for the ice, pressing it to his face and then abruptly turning his back to the hallway. "And for fuck's sake, will you find her a longer shirt? Or her underwear?"

Meg materialized, her clothing in hand. "Dave, I'm not putting on the same underwear two days in a row. Speaking of which, Ran, can I throw my stuff in the wash? I can't drive home in just a t-shirt." She watched his shoulders fall. _'Guess he was expecting me to...stay?'_

"Oh. Yeah, uh...laundry room is back that way." Randy's eyes were lifeless, and Dave winced to see them flatten.

Meg trotted to the couch, tossing her clothing on the floor and kneeling in front of Randy. "Hey. C'mon. I've got Sarah's car; at a minimum I've got to get it back to her. Plus, I don't have any clothing here, I kinda have a job I've got to make arrangements around...Ran, look at me." He shifted his eyes by millimeters, but was looking more through Meg than at her. She arched an eyebrow at Dave, who made a lopsided shift off the couch, muttering something about looking for more ice in the kitchen. _'At least he can take a hint.'_ She waited til he was distantly gone and banging things around far more loudly than was necessary before she continued.

"Randy. Be reasonable. I have no clothing, a car that isn't mine, and no more days off that I know of. And...kinda no idea what we're doing, other than making it up as we go along. Right now, it's okay. You're still home on rehab, I'm not going anywhere-"

"Promise me." His look could have cut glass; his eyes were frozen on her.

"- I'm – what?"

"Promise me you won't go anywhere. I want to hear you say it."

"I'm not going to leave, Ran. I'm staying. This is home. I promise. Doesn't negate the fact that I've gotta pay rent and do laundry, though." She smiled and leaned in, kissing him gently. "Have I ever left you? I mean, _really_ left you? I'm practically invincible."

Smiling through the kiss, Randy acquiesced. "Fine. For now, anyway. But what happens when-"

"We talk about 'when' when it happens." Feeling him press against her, Meg started to rise from between his knees. "In the meantime, since we have company, you're going to find some pants and behave yourself."

"Not possible unless _you_ find some pants."

"Not possible til I do laundry."

"We just have all kinds of problems, don't we?" Randy laughed and swatted at her as she gathered her laundry and headed in the general direction of his washer and dryer. Dave poked his head out from around the fridge door as she passed.

"Safe out there? Because in here...the fridge is terrifying."

"I think he'll live. It'd help if you talked to him, though. He's...sorting shit out."

"And you?"

Meg snorted. "Fuck. We _both_ know I'm never gonna be right. Car accident took care of that, didn't it?" She breezed past Dave, set her laundry, and joined the two in the den, where ESPN ruled the afternoon. Once programming cut to a commercial, she decided to help Randy into a pair of track pants, with even Dave agreeing that he shouldn't be in just a towel or bending quite that far to dress himself – but warning them both that the idea was to get _in _to the pants, and not out.

Once the washer and dryer had cycled, Meg declared herself sufficiently put-together for the drive back to her apartment. Dave and Randy wouldn't let her go until they were convinced she'd call them once she got home, and Dave waited at the steps while Randy walked Meg to her car, whispering something to her that made her eyes widen and her hand fly to her mouth to cover a smile before she got in.

Surprisingly, Meg let him open the door for her, and their kiss before she left was almost chaste. Dave had to admit, he was shocked at the level of restraint they showed. _'That was actually appropriate. I never thought I'd use that word in relation to those two.'_ Both he and Randy watched as she pulled off, Randy waiting a bit longer on the porch than was necessary, the taillights of Meg's car long since having disappeared before he came back into the house.

* * *

><p>"I know she's gonna come back, but fuck...I really didn't want her to leave." Well past dejected and firmly into morose, Randy threw himself down into the sofa hard enough to draw a grimace onto his face.<p>

"Well, that was smart. Whatever she did to fix your back, you just completely fucked it."

"Shut up, Dave." Randy had to grit out the words; he'd landed much harder than he meant to. He was still for a moment, then chuckled. Slowly, the chuckle turned into a laugh, then became positively uproarious. "Oh, shit, Dave...Do you think she'd buy it if I called her right now and told her I needed her to come back because I slipped another disc?"

"She'd have a panic attack trying to get back here." Dave shook his head. "Besides, I think you gave her enough to think about for the night. You, too. Any beer in that empty cave you call a fridge? Because I was going to see about pizza, since I know you're not even going to consider eating something easy on your stomach..."

"You're my babysitter for the night?"

"Looking that way, unless you'd rather be your own company."

"Throw me the house phone. I can send my neighbor's kid out. He's back from college and can grab my usual. Number's on the fridge, green paper."

Thirty minutes later, Randy was passing a gangly, bored-looking twenty-something a palmful of bills in exchange for pizza boxes and several paper bags. Kicking the door shut, he passed most everything to Dave, shuffled to the kitchen for mismatched plates and glasses, and returned to the den.

"If that's tequila in those bags, I'm going to punch you."

"Doubtful. I'd hit you back harder. Besides, you need me to open the beer. Can't find the bottle opener." Randy eased back onto the sofa, dragging his legs slowly up over the edge of the cushions. His lower back was on fire, and he dearly wished Meg was there to work everything back into place.

"I don't know how you find _anything_ in that shitpile. Or how you cook. You _better_ keep Meg around; if nothing else, she can organize it, stock your fridge, and make sure you don't get botulism."

Randy cracked the bottle of tequila and smiled distantly, deciding he could drink before he ate. "Yeah. Sam fucked it all up when she left, and I never fixed it. Just didn't care, I guess. Meg is gonna do a better job, anyway – Sam couldn't cook, ordered out for everything, didn't even try...I've gotta work on that whole car thing with Meg, too. She can't keep borrowing Sarah's. Really, she should just stay here."

Dave dropped his pizza slice onto the lid of the box, tried futilely to get the cap off his bottle of beer, and passed it to Randy, who snickered and opened it as easily as flipping a lightswitch before passing it back. Dave couldn't help but roll his eyes.

"Stop trying to make her stay here." He drank heavily after saying it, knowing that looking down into his beer bottle was going to be better than meeting Randy's glare. "Please?"

"Come again? You just told me to keep her around. Now I'm _not _supposed to keep her around?" The ire in his voice jumped up several levels with each word.

"Calm down, kid. Hear me out, okay? You act like you forgot everything I said earlier. She came home, right? She said this is home. That doesn't mean you need to go overboard, either. You try to tie her down, and what do you _already _know is gonna happen?"

"Run. She's gonna run." Sulkily, Randy drank again. Dave shoved a box of pizza at him, and reluctantly, Randy opened it and took a slice. "I feel like I screwed up, then. I got all shitty when she said she had to go."

"If you make a habit out of it, yeah. Randy...she spent all that time digging you out from under Sam, then she put herself under Jackson...she's not gonna dig you out from under her, on top of it all. You need to be there _for_ her, because she doesn't know where she is, yet. Are you hearing the difference?"

"She knows I don't care about what's in those reports. She knows I want her here. She knows I...care about her. I know she doesn't need to hear the rest right now, but I think she...I think she knows, anyway."

_'Aaaand I'm just gonna leave out the little detail about me and Joe telling her you're in love, because you'd lose your shit.'_ "Randy, to a point, you can say you don't care about those reports. You _have_ to care about what's in those reports, because it changed her. Whatever's in there."

"Honestly? I couldn't read all of it. Some of it...was like the hospital hurt her worse than Jackson did. What Jackson did to her made me sick. You've seen me dislocate my shoulders, open up gashes that were _how_ many inches long, crush discs, all kinds of shit, and never even blink, but...what she went through..." Randy tilted the bottle of tequila from one side to the other, watching the liquid slosh back and forth. "Some of it made me throw up. Cold sweats, throw up. Meg's tough as shit, I know she's strong – you've seen her haul all of us around backstage, and we're huge compared to her – but everything he did, before the wreck...I am _never_ going to understand why she went down there...to him, for that."

"But?"

"But I understand why she ended up playing turkey timer with his leg. Fuck, I wish she could have done more. I wish-" He stopped short, trying to pull his mind back from the flinty, brittle place it was playing in.

"I'm gonna regret asking this, but..." Dave swallowed, hard, and sent up a silent prayer that his pizza would stay down. "What's the short and dirty on what happened to her?"

Randy winced. "Dave, you really don't-"

"No, I don't. But I'm gonna fuck up and say or do the wrong thing at some point if I don't know."

"Before...before or after the accident?"

"Before. After a car accident like that...I worked emergency response for a while, I can guess."

"The best the hospital could guess was that he'd been beating on her for a couple of months. The pictures...she was all yellow, purple, green...her skin was all just bruises. Fingers, hands. Grip. You could see his shoes on her back, in some of them. I remember one looked like a belt buckle. Nothing on her face, though, it was all shit she could cover. Her wrists were all cut up. Not like she did it to herself, but like she was tied up somehow. Ankles, too. Some stuff looked like he was bored and just slicing on her. The reports – and get this, the one thing he pussied out on, after all that – said there were _implied_ burns. They couldn't be sure."

Dave looked queasy. Randy just shrugged. "You asked, don't be a fuckin' princess now. Remy said some of the broken bones were...fuck, what did he call them? It's this tequila. Hard edge impacts, I think? That asswipe was throwing her into things or hitting her with things, I don't know. As many screws as she had in her ribs, he was probably throwing her over things to fuck her. _Anything_ he could have done to her, he did to her, far as that goes. It wasn't like he was asking her for permission or what she liked in bed...but...I don't wanna talk about her like that. Fuck knows _she _doesn't talk about it. After her head went through the car window, maybe she doesn't even remember any of it. The side airbag failed, go figure. She should be dead; the car should've ground her right across the pavement."

"I get it, now."

It was Randy's turn to blink and be still. "Get...what?"

"Why you...all of it. Why you get afraid, whether or not you like that word." Dave tried to organize his thoughts into something that sounded coherent without being overbearing. "She's still gonna take a slow roll, Randy. _Real_ slow roll."

"Don't be doing that shit, Dave. Don't even. I admit I started it, because I was grabbing at her shirt, but I stopped, too. I stopped because it was more important for me to _talk_ to her than to strip her. She kissed me." Randy shook his head, hard. "I need to not say shit like that. Like...she kissed me, but _we_ did...that. Not like that's her fault, or she did something wrong. I mean...I went with it, but it wasn't like I was directing it. She...this is so weird, telling you this...the thing I wanted her to do was what _she_ wanted to do. Let her tell me-"

Dave flicked one of his beer caps at Randy to get him to stop, smacking it off the side of his face, earning a sour look in response. "You and Meg had a relationship from the start. Friendship counts, and you two have always had...more than that, no matter how you look at it. Yeah, it was platonic, but if two people could _ever_ figure out a way to be emotionally fucking each other, you guys did it. On the one hand, she just got in to bed with someone she's been with for a _long_ time. And on the other hand, she just got in to bed with someone she kissed a red-hot minute after she pretty well murdered her long-term boyfriend and her short-term fuckbuddy didn't want to take her back. Even _you, _mister ring rat quick-dick hookup, can see how that's _got_ to be a mess in her head."

"Part of me wants to hurt you, Dave, but I can't move that far. I hate the fact you're right about shit, but fucking hell, did you have to _say_ it like that? That...hurts. I know I did some low shit. Meg _watched_ me do some low shit. Why do you think I'm so fucking terrified she's gonna just leave?"

"Randy, you don't _listen_ to shit that isn't balls-out like that." Dave rolled his eyes. "Why have you always listened to Meg? She gives you a choice when it won't make the situation worse, and the rest of the time, it just is how it _is. _Things just _are. _And thank you, by the way. For finally saying it. But give Meg more credit. No matter how awful you think you were, she still said she came home to you."

Randy chewed his next slice thoughtfully, his tequila forgotten for the moment. _'Meg just needs to come back. I know why she wants her own space, but...this is a craving. Dave's right. I've _had _her forever, but now I can really have her. So I want her. Need her. I'm afraid she won't need me. I'm afraid Joe's gonna show up and fuck it all.'_

"What I don't get is why she didn't-"

"She went down there so he didn't come up here. So we didn't have to watch, basically." Dave passed a second bottle to Randy, who opened it on auto-pilot and passed it back. "And, so you didn't get your hands dirty."

Randy's head snapped over to Dave. "Uh, 'scuse me?"

"She loved Joe, or she thought she did, whichever. But when it gets right down to it...whose room did she always fall asleep in when he wasn't around? Who bought her coffee the morning she found out she wasn't losing her job? And for that matter, who was happier that morning, you or Joe? Because I'm pretty sure Joe just sat there, and you were the one who hugged her. I saw you, Randy. There was never a time when you weren't focused on her, and not just for what you'd get out of it."

"What does all this have to do with now?"

"Everything. You're still angry at Jackson, and you can't do shit about it because there's nobody to do anything to. You can't fix Meg, and you can't protect her from what's not there. Whether or not you like it, he's in her head, and probably permanently to some degree. You're angry at Joe, and you _absolutely _cannot pull any more shit like what you just did, because you completely fucked up her headspace – and depending on what kind of an asshole he's feeling like at the moment, it's gonna impact your job."

"Right, and like it was so easy for me to watch her walk away."

It was Dave's turn to sound dangerous, in that he was tired of the damage jealousy seemed to cause Randy to inflict on everyone around him. "You need to sit down and talk with her about Joe, and get all that out in the open. Beyond it, I'm only gonna say this once, because it shouldn't take more than that for you to understand it – and to understand that you need to _stop_ harping on it. Meg _doesn't_ want him back. She left with him that night because she was scared and she was trying to bail you out. If you killed him, you were only _kinda _gonna be in some deep shit. Meg was gonna do what she had to, like always, to save your ass. Just like with Sam, just like with your shoulders, your back, with the company and Jackson...are you seeing a theme?"

Randy sighed, stretched, drank far more of the tequila in one pull than he should have, and sighed again. "I...yeah. With Meg, everyone else comes first."

Dave cringed, given Randy's choices of words, but knew it had to be brought up. "This is the world's most awkward segue, but I have to ask. You two...earlier...please tell me _one_ of you was thinking ahead and grabbed a condom, or Meg's on the pill, or...anything?"

Randy just shrugged. "No, and not that I know of. Why?" _'Oh well. I'm clean, her hospital reports said she – thank God – was clean, and would it be the worst thing in the world if I had another kid? And did I really just have the world's calmest reaction to that question?'_

"Jesus Christ, Randy, are you _kidding_ me?" Dave was incredulous. "I'm not even thinking in terms of disease, because I know you're both probably fine, but in terms of _kids_, Randy...just...Randy. Oh my God. What this would do to Meg..." He dropped his head in his hands.

"What? You're acting like it's the end of the world. Statistically..."

"Oh, shut the fuck up about statistics." Dave flicked another beer cap, this one hitting much closer to Randy's eye. "Picture, for just a minute, Meg feeling obligated to go to a doctor once a month or more to throw her legs in the air and be prodded at. Until, of course, she's actually _birthing_ a baby, in which case it's a never-ending parade of doctors, nurses, techs, and God forbid there's a c-section, because-"

"Okay! Okay. I get it." Randy drank, again. _'Oh, I fucked up. I fucked up, so bad. And I can't fix it now, and even if I could it's gonna sound like I'm saying she's dirty or there's something I don't want, or...Jesus Christ, this is all just so fucked up.'_"And...if it happens, I'll figure something out. We, me, Meg, we'll figure something out. Women have kids without hospitals all the time. Don't they?"

Dave shook his head. "Of course you have an answer. How about you have a conversation with her, too?"

"Oh, sure. How about 'Hey, Meg, I know the sex was great, but in the interest of not getting you knocked up, either you need a no-baby-tic-tac or I have to wrap it up. Whatever you think is less gross, your pick.' Dave, you know she's got to go to a doctor to get a script for the pill. That's an exam right there. She's not gonna go for that after all that shit in the hospital."

"I can't believe I'm about to say this, but if I can find someone who will just write it for her, no questions asked, and I get you the name, _then_ will you have the conversation with her?"

"Yeah, but in the meantime?" Randy looked lost; it sounded for all the world like Dave had just volunteered to help him get laid.

"In the meantime, the next time you two are feeling like being caught _in flagrante delicto_, you need to be prepared, Boy Scout. Or find something else to do, or some other way to deal with it. I don't know. Shit, I don't even _want_ to know, just handle it."

Randy tilted his tequila at Dave, who clinked the neck of his beer bottle against it, before both men laughed heartily at the absurd turn their conversation had taken. Both of them cared deeply for Meg, and for brief moments, both were seeing thin rays of sunlight across her sky. They fell asleep in their respective spots on the overstuffed furniture, both feeling more hopeful about the future than they had in a while, and only one of the two of them answering their phone when it rang.


	22. Mi Casa, Su Casa, Nuestra Cocina

Welcome ChelleLew! And as ever, THANK YOU to the eminently talented nattiebroskette, who makes steak and mango all the more delicious. If you haven't, drop EVERYTHING you're doing and go read EVERYTHING she's written. NOW!

Anyone new out there? Drop me a line! I love to hear from my lurkers, readers, reviewers - and DON'T BE SHY! I'm chattier than...well...something chatty. I love getting messages. Tell me what you're liking, what you're not, what's going on, what you want to see next (I'll take requests to a point...believe it or not, I had a Randy/Melina not too long ago that I'm...trying to make work. Melina's a thing, I guess!)

Onward!

* * *

><p>With Sarah's car refueled and parked, Meg snuck up to her apartment and closed the door quietly, smiling as she slid down the back of it, the delightful ache in the front of her thighs making the trek down to the floor a slow one. <em>'I – we – did that.' <em>She trailed her fingers up the inside of her legs, across the bottom of her bra, along the side of her neck, tracing some of the paths his fingers had taken, playing at the collar of her shirt. From the floor, Meg looked around her apartment, and turned her head in disgust. Not that it was dirty, or in poor repair, but compared to the house she'd just left, it was shabby. The furniture was cheap, the rooms were small, her clothing was worn, and she found herself twisting her collar tighter and tighter around her fingers.

Dryly, Meg whispered into the empty space in the room, not that her voice did much to fill it. "I'm never gonna fit, am I? Here, yeah. There? No. Much as I want to, no. And what is he gonna do in a place like this? His place is beautiful. Even Joe's place...and why the fuck am I even thinking about Joe?" Meg hefted herself up from the floor and over to the couch, grabbing the half-drained bottle of Jack from the counter where Sarah had left it nights ago. Taking a drink and not caring it was over an empty stomach, she dialed Randy, knowing he'd sleep through her call. Waiting til the recording toned, Meg took a shaky breath and began.

"Hey, Ran. I kinda figured you'd be sleeping off dinner, but I promised I'd call, so here I am. Everything's fine at the apartment – I'll figure out my schedule at work, get some laundry done, and let you know what's going on. Maybe...maybe we can figure something out for dinner? I don't wanna be pushy. Forget it, if that's too much. I...uh...I'll talk to you later, okay?"

Meg ended the call and tapped the phone against her forehead repeatedly, then dialed Dave, hoping he'd pick up and have an actual conversation with her.

Yawning, Dave obliged her. "Hey, Megs. You make it okay?"

"Yeah, if you don't count the complete existential crisis I had between the door, the booze, and the couch."

"Okay, Meg. Slow down, and lay off the drink. I know you didn't eat, you're going to end up too drunk to function. What's going on?" _'Well, this is great. Randy and Joe beat the shit out of each other, she breaks down, Joe says God knows what to her, she ends up sleeping with Randy, and now she's alone in her apartment drinking. This is going to end spectacularly well.'_

"Dave...what am I doing? I don't belong with him. This is the whole problem. Jackson was slumming when he picked me. Joe was slumming when he picked me. Randy and I were friends, but...I don't fit. He's going to be slumming if he tries to make this into anything more than a one-time thing. He doesn't want that."

_'Oh, and here we go. Button, you have been pushed.' _"Holy fucking shit, Meg, is this a _habit_ of yours? Go tactical nuclear warfare on yourself as soon as _anything _good happens? Fucking knock it off, or I'm going to wake his ass up, dump him at your place, and you can say that shit to his face. I want to be there to see it. You really want to watch the disaster happen, Meg? Let's do that. I am _so sick_ of you and the way you do this to yourself. I get why you went that far with Jackson, but do you really have to cause _another_ wreck with Randy? Is it _fun_ for you? Because it's going to destroy him. You know what he's most afraid of? You deciding _he_ isn't good enough, Meg. That _he's_ going to be the failure."

Holding the phone away from her face, staring at it slack-jawed and stupid, Meg looked first at the coffee table, then the couch cushions, for answers. None were coming, and her breathing was shaky. "Dave...what the fuck?"

"You fit when you worked here. You didn't give a shit about your old shirts or where he lived then, did you?"

"No, but..."

"Go away, Meg. Call me back when you have your RN finished. That's all I'm gonna tell you. And if you fuck up _anything_ with Randy over your bullshit insecurity, my fat ghost is going to haunt your ass, because I will die of a stroke from having to deal with him. Congratulations for having the good sense to talk it out instead of being a Big Dumb, but don't get any ideas."

The line clicked off, and Meg drank until she fell asleep, deciding she could call the clinic later and ask about her schedule.

* * *

><p>Sarah, however, decided Meg should have only a few hours rest, and woke her by pounding on her door during her lunch break. After hitting the floor abruptly and spilling a copious amount of whiskey on herself in the process, Meg groped her way over to the door and let Sarah in without bothering to look.<p>

"Damn, girl. Shouldn't you at least check before you open it? What if I was a killer?"

"Then you'd be doing me a favor. C'mon in."

"Whoo, you look rough. Good thing I brought food." Dangling a bag of Chinese takeout in front of her, Meg almost knocked her down in an effort to get to the box of lo mein she knew would be buried inside. Sarah, better rested and more sober, yanked back and dodged her, sending Meg directly into the wall near the stove. "Nope. Not unless I get a complete rundown on why I didn't have my car for two days. I was about ready to tell the cops to start dredging the river. You don't even get a fork until you start talking."

Meg tried to glare, but between the lack of sleep and overflow of alcohol, could only manage to stagger and aim a marginally angry pucker at Sarah, who broke down into hysterical laughter.

"Okay, okay, shit. You look so pathetic, here. That was so graceful it earned soup, at least. I still want to know what happened to my car. Do I have to steam clean the seats? Do we need an official no-sex-in-the-champagne-vehicle rule?"

It was Meg's turn to laugh hard enough to choke as she stood over her counter, spoon in hand. "Christ, Sarah. No! Worst thing I did was have a cigarette in there. I just drove to Randy's, and then it was parked til I drove it back. Gated community, or whatever they call it down here. Nobody was getting near your baby."

"Okay, that earns an egg roll. Keep going; details earn plum sauce."

"Food as bribery? You're a bitch." Meg smiled, the soup was doing her good.

"Oh, I get worse from here; I've got the takeout. You're still in the same clothes, but you don't smell like cologne, sweat, or sex. Don't tell me you were there for two days to do his dishes and balance his checkbook."

Meg choked again, feeling a bean sprout head directly up her nose. "Are you _trying _to practice your CPR? Fucking hell!" Coughing violently, Meg went for the whiskey, to which Sarah shrugged and pulled out a new bottle. Meg's eyes widened, and she pointed at the clock between spasms, hacks, and drinks off her own fifth.

"And? Hardest thing I do all day is sort the mail and give out dupes to the idiots who lock themselves out. Don't have to be sober to do that. So, did you get laid or not? Your plum sauce is riding on it." Sarah cocked her head to the side, a pensive look on her face. "Actually, that's a pretty good metaphor. Gotta remember that. Was your _plum_ sauce _riding_ on it?" She waggled her egg roll suggestively in her mouth, giving Meg little chance to stop coughing and recover, even though her ribs were beginning to ache fiercely.

"Sarah...shut...the fuck...up...gonna...kill me!" Meg was laughing so hard she was crying, and was debating whether or not she'd start an all-out food fight if she flicked soup at her friend. Erring on the side of caution, she forced herself to slow down, and recounted as much of the night as was proper to tell, even though Sarah was more than a bit curious.

"So, the real question is," Sarah asked, between slurping noodles, "Does he have a friend?"

"I just spent forty-five minutes embarrassing myself, and you wanna know if you can get in on it?"

"Well, they obviously aren't _all_ married..." Sarah winked, and Meg rolled her eyes.

"I don't work there anymore. Dave's all of a sudden pushing me to finish my RN, for whatever that's worth. If this...mess...with Randy works out, I get the feeling that I'm gonna end up with him at some charity ball or fundraiser."

"Meaning?" Sarah poked the handle of the fork around her teeth.

"Meaning, if you can figure out the difference between a utensil and floss in a reasonable amount of time," Meg teased, pointing at the plasticware Sarah was wielding like a dental pick, "I may be able to convince him to plus-one you, if you get to know him a bit."

"Deal! But, uh...you're gonna help, right?"

"As much help as I'm gonna be; all I know is you start with the silverware on the outside."

"You're twelve steps ahead of me, then." Sarah raised her bottle of Jack and winked.

* * *

><p>Randy, thrilled at Meg's suggestion of dinner, threw himself into his kitchen as fast as his mangled lower back would let him, ignoring Dave's warnings to slow down. Dave, sick of talking to two brick walls in one day, decided to take leave of the whole situation, though he did encourage Randy to take Meg up on the dinner offer. "Actually – that was one lie I sorta told in your favor. I used to give Joe shit that she sucked at cooking, and she used to bitch a blue streak that he barely let her in the kitchen when they were in Tampa. She cooked for him, but it wasn't ever anything much. I know you know better."<p>

Pulling out of the driveway, Dave considered checking on Joe, then decided that could wait another day. _'Today – I want a day off. From the whole mess. And some sleep in an actual bed.'_

The kitchen was exactly as Dave said he'd found it and as Randy remembered it; the further he dug into his cupboards, all he found were mismatched plates with chips and cracks. His glassware was scratched and none of the sets were complete. Trying to bend low enough to check pots and pans, he was surprised to see how few he actually owned, and wasn't honestly sure if there were enough to put together a meal. _'Is that a...metal tray? What do you even do that that? Cookies? Meg would know.'_ The same thought echoed around his head in regards to his bowls and kitchen tools, and he finally slammed a cupboard shut out of frustration.

_'I don't even want to know how bad the fridge is.'_ Carefully, slowly, despite not wanting to know how sad his domestic life had become, he cracked the door open. The fridge was kind enough to only smell like a combination of stale air and pizza, and Randy assumed Dave had cleaned some of the worst-spoiled offenders out before he left. Pizza boxes, a singular six-pack of beer, and bottled water were its sole contents. He rested his head against his arm as he held the door open. "And this is how I'm going to rehab my back. I'm going to starve to death in my empty house."

Slowly, Randy shut the door to the fridge, and leaned against the cold metal. "Sam, I never liked stainless. You knew that. Funny how every nice plate and bowl left, but I got stuck with the fucking ugly fridge."

* * *

><p><em>-"So, lemme get this right. She sent you to a giant-ass grocery store, by yourself, and then got pissed off that you didn't manage to come back with..groceries?" Meg pulled her candy bar away from her teeth, caramel trailing in thin strings from her lips, passing it to Randy as she debated smacking the cigarette from his hand. In the end, she opted against it, only because the stress was wearing so plainly on his face and she didn't want to waste the intimidation he'd used to wrangle it from a stagehand. For his part, Randy managed to put a solid third of the confection in his mouth, biting down solidly before passing it back to Meg.<em>

"_Yeanh, amnh," He worked the nougat and caramel into a shape he could talk around, "Then she acted like she didn't understand why I couldn't actually...shop. What the fuck did she think was going to happen if she sent me into a store in the middle of the day to pick up shit for dinner? I could prance in and grab a couple steaks? Plus, she wanted all this random shit, and I didn't know what half of it was. On top of that, she can't cook, so there was no point. I was trying to make her happy, but goddamn if it didn't feel like a setup."_

"_Okay, first, don't ever pretend to prance again," Meg made a half-assed attempt at swatting at his arm. "And second, yeah," Meg's voice quieted considerably, "She should have sent your PA, or someone. You can't just run out in public like it's no big deal. You get mobbed. What did she think would happen? You could run through the store okay no hassle, and the bonus would be cutting in line?"_

"_She's dumb, sometimes." Randy pulled the end of the candy bar back from Meg's hand, killing off the rest of it without asking, eying the threads of caramel still stuck to her lips, debating whether or not to touch her and brush them off._

"_She's dumb all the time, Ran. It's Sam. I put up with her because you love her, and then there's your little girl, and you know how I feel about that. But...she plays with you to hurt you. What if someone at the store took it too far? What if someone followed you? Did you have your kiddo with you?"_

"_That weekend? Yeah. I didn't even think like that, because she was with Sam. But...yeah." Randy looked more irritated than anything, and Meg scrambled through a thousand options to salvage his evening._

"_Okay...okay, here. Tell you what, give me the list. I'm not shit to nobody. What did Sam want?"_

"_Meg, I don't fucking know. I want a cigarette. And a drink."_

_Meg shoved herself into his chest, suddenly feeling bigger, bolder, than she was, trying and failing to push him back, but feeling every inch of heat between them. "And that's nice. Bum one off a tech, and give me the fucking list. I didn't ask for all your problems, just your goddamn groceries."_

_Randy pushed her back, hard. "And what the fuck got in to you? You're gonna do what, go kick her ass?"_

"_I could if I wanted to, and you know it. But I respect you more than that. I'm trying to do something for you, you giant asshole, so either tell me what she wanted or stop bitching." Meg was inches from his lips, her breath sugar and more sugar, inviting; the candy put every possible holiday and vacation in her mouth._

"_You're about to do something really stupid since I left without shopping, aren't you?"_

"_The list, asshole."_

_Randy quietly recounted the list to Meg, noticing that she hadn't written a single thing down, and knowing she didn't need to._

_The next day, in the world's smallest hotel room, with no greater heat source than the tiny charcoal Weber she'd managed to broken-Spanish her way into sharing with some of the hotel's support staff after promising to cook for them as well, Meg dropped a Dixie plate full of amazing into his lap. Randy swore, at that moment, to blast Dave in the mouth the next time he mocked Meg's skills in the kitchen._

_Perfectly medium-rare steak, salted up to the edge of good taste but not over, brilliantly charred, with diamond -shaped grill marks, snub sweet corn rolled in paprika and cilantro and some sort of crema she'd whipped together, mango salsa with God knew what else in it that was hot and sour, a salad of greens he figured he couldn't pronounce with lemon juice and Mexican oregano and some kind of olive oil on top, and by the time he was three bites in to the plate, he realized he'd not only moaned close to ten times, but Meg hadn't eaten a bite; she'd only sat there, salting half-rims on shotglasses, wedging eighths of limes onto each one, over-pouring and smiling broadly. The parade of people through the room she shared with Dave seemed endless; every time he looked up there were more hotel employees coming through with bags and armfuls of food, headed through the sliding glass doors towards the concrete patio. Someone turned up with a guitar, and there was applause and spontaneous dancing outside. Inside the room, the air conditioner strained to keep up; box fans had been propped on nearly every available flat surface._

_Randy sat huddled near Dave, barely aware that he was in the shitty staff hotel instead of the posh talent-suites at the other end of town, watching the apparent party grow, Meg's arms floating from the cutting board balanced on her knees back up to the windowsill, checking the balance of the tequila bottle between her feet every now and again, pointing to other bottles lined up near the door, running the handle of the knife under the straps of her bra and tanktop, trying to keep both from sliding down her arms as she bent and swayed. The heat, the alcohol, the humidity – everything had combined to dampen her face, paste her hair in moist bands along her neck, and as the sun went down over the highway and billboards behind the hotel, Randy couldn't remember ever seeing the sky so shockingly violet. He imagined Meg would say rain was coming to break the humidity, then when it did, swing her sandals in her hands as she ran across the hot asphalt in the parking lot, Dave telling her to stop dragging grit and water back into their room and put her damned shoes on in case they had to handle a triage call._

_Plate in hand, he edged through the room, moving closer to her as she hunched over the window ledge on the patio, doing her best to keep up with the men as they tried to teach her English-to-Spanglish, only to settle on something that sounded vaguely like Esperanto._

"_Why'd you do all this?" He was somewhere between comatose on protein and overloaded on delight, and leaned tremendously close to her before speaking._

"_Because I only ever want you to be happy, Randy. You gotta know that by now." Meg looked almost hurt, irked, that he asked, and a few of the hotel staff began to circle her, unsure if they should be protective or patient._

"_Meggles, I am happy. This is amazing. All of this." He lowered himself around her in a single-armed embrace, before deciding finding Dave might be safer than waiting to see what the crowd thought of him. "You're amazing, Meg. If any of this was different...just...Meggie, I know. I know you. Thank you." He kissed the top of her head, lifted a full shotglass from the windowsill, and disappeared back toward Dave, leaving Meg to her own devices at the temporary lime bar she'd created, trying his best to look ignorant to her brimming eyes, though fully aware of them over her smile._

_Dave had worked his way through his entire steak by the time Randy returned. "Tell me you didn't make her spend all this money on you."_

"_No. She asked what Sam told me to go buy, but-"_

"_You dumbass. Sam pissed you off, and Meg was gonna make it right. Plus, is it ever not a party where Meg's involved?"_

_Randy dropped his head. "Okay. You win. She kinda got me, on this one. I was gonna win to lose no matter what, though. She hates Sam."_

"_Yeah, she does. And she hates to see you sad even more. Best meal of your life, though, I bet?"_

"_Fucking amazing. Sam had me spend all that money on putting in a kitchen for her, and she just...stares at it. Doesn't use it, bitches about it all the time, but it's...just there. Doesn't do much for either one of us."_

_Dave snorted. "Meg would tear it up in there, you know."_

"_Yeah, I know. Don't make it any harder for me, Dave. I know." -_

* * *

><p>Looking from his fridge to his phone and back again, Randy banged one heel against the bottom of his fridge. "And now I get to tell her that even though dinner was her idea – and she knows how much I hated it that Sam always dragged my ass <em>out<em> for dinner – we should go _out_ for dinner. This is great. Because the alternative is, I'm gonna call her and tell her dinner was her idea and she gets to cook for me, but she can do it here with one pan and a half-assed spoon, or I'm just gonna invite myself over to her place."

Realizing his heel was beginning to hurt, Randy looked down. A small dent was forming in the freezer drawer. "Orton, you are _such_ a genius. Fucking Mensa member." He snatched his phone off the counter and hobbled over to his sofa, trying and mostly failing to settle himself gently into the cushions. "Here's hoping you're not at work, not mad at me for not picking up, and not gonna be annoyed with this whole dinner thing." Randy punched up Meg's number, muted the TV, and waited.

"Sarah's phone, this is Meg, how can I – wait! Shit! I mean, this is Sarah! I have Meg's phone! Hang on!"

Randy crinkled an eyebrow and fixed a positively confused look on his phone, listening to Meg bang around and try to grab her phone from Sarah, who was clearly sloshed and slurring.

"Jesus, Randy, I'm sorry. She makes an impression when she wants to. If it helps any, she came over and brought lunch for me."

"Is that the one who made the weird noise?"

"Ha. Yeah, that's Sarah, the complex manager. I think you met the first night we stayed here; she brought my lease over in the morning."

"Yep. Definitely the one with the weird noise. She's alright, but isn't it a little early to be _that_ trashed?"

"Enh...you'd have to know her. She's keeping me company. I had a moment when I got back here, and I-"

"Meg, what happened? Are you okay?" Randy was immediately on edge; he tried to sit up from his half-reclined position on the couch and tweaked his back from the effort, wincing and giving up.

"Whoa, whoa. I have to learn how to phrase things, don't I?" Meg shook her head and stepped over Sarah, who was laying on the floor in the living room, playing with her fingers as though they were the most fascinating things in the universe. "I'm fine. It was...it's tough to explain."

"Because you have an audience?"

"That's part of it, yeah. And because I don't know how to say it without coming off like a shallow bitch."

"Well...can we talk about it over dinner?" Randy smiled at himself; he didn't know if he felt cheesy or slick, but he at least got the offer out. "And for the record, I think it's physically impossible for you to be a shallow bitch."

"Dinner sounds great, Ran. Did you have something in mind, or...?" _'Be careful, Meg. You're not gonna invite yourself over there, and you're sure as shit not having him here. Once was enough, and that only skated by because he was probably too tired to notice.'_

"Well...uh...this is where it gets fucked up." Randy paused, swallowed hard, and wished he'd thought to get a bottle of water before he sat down. "When Sam left, she-"

Meg's sigh was so loud it was physically painful, and he yanked the phone away from his ear. "Goddamn, Meg. I know you don't like her, but blowing my ears out hurts me, not her." He chuckled, and continued. "She cleaned out the kitchen and I have, like, one tray for _something. T_here's a bowl, too, I think, and there's a spoon and a set of tongs. Uh...a pot, a pan. I'm not even kidding. That's pretty much it. And I don't know what to do with that shit, and the only thing in my fridge that's edible is leftover pizza."

"So..._no_ dinner?"

"No, that's not what I'm saying. I mean, I don't know what to do. I was kinda hoping you'd help decide?"

"Well...are you gonna be mad if I say I don't want to go out?"

"Thank God. Me either."

"See, and then I feel like I'm just inviting myself back over. With your back and the stairs, it doesn't make sense for you to drive out here-"

At that, Sarah chimed in from the floor. "Bitch, please. You know you're gonna take the Champagne Car."

Meg cleared her throat, but smiled at her friend. "-As I was saying, before Little Miss Helpful jumped in, there's gonna be driving either way. It's really that I'd be inviting myself out there and that's just-"

"Okay, problem solved. I'll see you at your place...later. Sneak tactics!" Randy ended the call and smiled.

"Wait, Ran! What do you want me to get? What time are you gonna – Ran? Hello?" Meg rolled her eyes and threw her hands in the air. "Well, this is spectacular. Are you gonna help me haul him up here?"

"That heavy lookin' motherfucker? Bye, Felicia. Buuuut, if you deal with the phones, the mail, and the dupes for the rest of the day, I'll sober up, take the Champagnemobile, and go pick up stuff from the store for you. That way, when he shows up he's not sitting around your apartment by himself if you're out."

"Deal. Please don't buy anything ridiculous that's gonna take six days, a customs waiver, and a legal permit to cook."

"Meg, you just took _all _the fun out of this."

"He likes Italian. How much coffee am I gonna have to brew to counteract that handle you just put down?"

* * *

><p>Three hours later, the office closed and all major crises averted, Sarah nearly kicked a hole through the bottom of Meg's door, arms overflowing with paper bags, vegetables, bottles of wine, and the requisite baguette sticking up into the air. Meg, having jumped out of her skin and then back into it due to the explosive noise, ran to the door and threw it open.<p>

"Goddamn, girl, are you coming to dinner _with_ us?"

"He's not gonna have a fuckin' salad for dinner, Meg. You need food-food, not "I'm Meg and I eat calories by looking angrily at lettuce" food."

"Are you two sure you're not related?" Randy, leaning into the frame of the door, was doing his best to suppress a smile. "You argue like fuckin' sisters."

"Sarah, _not _a word. How did you not see him coming up the stairs behind you? And _don't_ make the noise." Meg smiled and steered her friend out the door around Randy, holding her by the shoulders, though Sarah couldn't help a backwards glance at his ass.

"Daayum, Meg, you're not gonna-" Sarah's neck was working double-time to keep staring.

"Sarah, go work your fork-fu. I love you, and we will talk later." Meg winked, and closed the door, thankful Randy had the good sense to slide further into the small entryway, where his curiosity got the better of him and he moved into the kitchen and unloaded several of the bags.

"Italian?" Randy held up bottle after bottle of wine, smiling broadly.

"Italian from scratch, apparently. Sarah wanted to keep me busy tonight." Meg puzzled through the items in the bags, settling on putting together a Bolognese sauce that could go over pasta, add in veal-or-something, since there was half a butcher's shop in one of the bags, and a hurry-up bruschetta to snack on while they waited for everything else to cook up or down.

"What if I want to keep you busy?"

"Then that's what we have the wine for. And satellite. And tiramisu, which I have to start soaking now." Meg's deadpan was terrifying; Randy almost believed her entire intent was to make dinner and watch a movie with him while they waited for ladyfingers to chill in a cream sauce and coffee liqueur.

_'Okay...okay, and if she does, that's fine. Slow it down, tiger. It's just dinner. Normal people do normal things like have normal dinner. Not everything ends in crazy rabbit sex.'_ "Meggie, whatever you want." He kissed the top of her head, unable to see the smirk on her face or how deep the roll of her eyes was.

"Good Lord. If you really believe that all I want to do is watch a movie, then I have swampland in Florida to sell to you, too."

"You know, I might actually have a use for that..."

Meg punched him in the arm. "Oh, shut up. If anyone gets to drop his ass in 'gator-central, it's me. You can give him a backwards map to 'help' get him out, if you want. And as long as you're gonna be too stubborn to sit, pass me the chef's knife and the mandoline."

Randy looked at her blankly, and then half-heartedly pulled out a drawer before gently closing it and drumming his fingers on the edge of the counter. "Er...can _you _pass me two wine glasses and the corkscrew instead? It's probably safer that way. And I promise I'll sit down and just watch. Appreciatively, even." He dragged a chair up near the counter, eased down into it, and waited for the well-meaning barb from Meg. What followed was a gentle kiss after he sat, as she tilted his face up to meet hers. He felt himself smile against her lips, and knew the night would only improve from there.


	23. I Was Found In The Temple

With thanks to several online references for additional information on the Hagia Sofia; rather than provide in-line citations since nothing's a direct quote and we JUST WENT THROUGH THIS, PEOPLE (it's fiction, not a research paper), I will provide the information and links to anyone who's interested via PM.

It's Christmas, so I'm feeling a bit of a romantic. The next chapter gets us back to the hijinks.

Special thanks to Nattiebroskette, who greenlighted this one :)

* * *

><p>Randy was dying, one motion, one aroma, one sip at a time. Meg had quickly sorted out her work schedule from his lap while the sauce bubbled, letting him lean against the back of her cell phone as she spoke with her supervisor. He listened to the days and times the charge nurse rattled off, smiling approvingly as the woman made every effort to accommodate Meg's requests while she penned them into a small notebook. Satisfied with the results of the call, Meg thanked the woman and hung up, curling into the crook of Randy's neck, tapping her wineglass against his in a gesture of self-congratulation.<p>

"She's really good to you, Meg. That's a crazy-flexible schedule, even for a twenty-four hour place."

"She's a saint. I told her about your back – not about your job, just your back – and that you were gonna need a lot of support while you rehabbed. They're really happy with me at the clinic, so I guess the consensus is, as long as I come back, I can be gone when I need to be."

"Not about my job?" Randy furrowed his brows for a fraction of a second. "Whatcha mean?"

"No, not like that." Meg scooted from his lap, stirred the sauce, checked the directions on the package of pasta, and turned back to Randy. "What, you thought I should advertise?"

"Well...are you embarrassed?" Randy's voice was irritable and hard, and he set his wine glass down far too firmly on the counter. The small charm around the stem jumped and clinked.

"Whoa, now. Hold on." Meg crossed her arms, wooden spoon in hand, and leaned next to the stove in order to face Randy. "Because I don't want to put your personal business out for the world to know, because I don't want to get peppered by questions at work from nosy people who want to sell you to a tabloid dirt sheet, and because I don't want to get followed around by assholes who only think I'm useful as a way to get to you, I'm _embarrassed_?" Meg looked crestfallen. "Ran, how many people did Sam drag into your life who were only there for the ride and not the reality? There is _nothing_ about you that is shameful to me – but that doesn't mean I want to broadcast you to the world, either. That happens twice a week on cable as it is." Meg spun to face the stove again, feeling her eyes start to sting, not knowing if the rest of her statement was a good idea, but the wine forced it out of her mouth. "And...I wasn't sure what was or wasn't okay to talk about, either. I...kinda wanted your permission. Before I said anything to anyone. I didn't know what was too much."

Meg heard the wineglass scrape up off the counter, but what she couldn't hear was Randy feeling like a fool. The floor vibrated ever-so-slightly as he pushed his chair back along the edge of the galley-room and stood up, inching over to Meg near the stove as she aimlessly stirred the pot of sauce.

"Meggie, I'm sorry. I don't know what..." He paused, looked into his wine, and drained the glass, putting it to the side of the stove. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her back from the pots as they popped and bubbled. "No, I do know what. Remember how we said we were gonna talk over dinner?" Randy leaned down and kissed the side of her neck, feeling the heat and steam from the stove crawl up the side of his face as he tilted over her, relieved when he felt her relax and lay back against him.

"Yeah...is this one of those things we have to talk about?"

"It's probably _the_ thing we should talk about, as far as I go. And whatever else you need."

"We both need more wine. That's a start. And, Ran?"

"Hm?" He continued to burrow into her neck, not sure if he wanted to stay there and drown in roses or move a few feet lower and take his chances going face first into a pot of what was promising to the best pasta sauce he'd ever had in his life.

"Kiss me."

Turning, pulling her back from the stove, he lifted her as far up to him as he could manage, Meg boosting herself the rest of the way up the counter, dinner momentarily forgotten. It was only the shrill beeping of a timer that brought them out of their reverie and sent Meg down to her knees, drawing a groan of excitement from Randy – which was soon replaced by a groan of mock-frustration as Meg spun on her heels and took a tray of bruschetta from the oven, scattering fresh basil and a drizzle of olive oil over the top.

"C'mon, and bring the wine. Appetizer now – there's olives out already, somewhere – and I'll throw the pasta in the water in a bit. Sauce will be ready a bit after that, and then boom, dinner."

* * *

><p>They channel surfed briefly, with Randy stealing the remote when he noticed Meg's eyes widen at the Travel Channel. <em>'Ideas, Orton. File it away for later.'<em> "Whatever you called this, Meg, this is amazing." Crisp and light bread that had been salted and peppered, a vague taste of olives from the oil, pungent basil, snow-white cheese that stretched into long strings, and tomatoes that he didn't realize could taste so much like...tomato.

"Wait'll you try the pasta. I don't do the sauce all that often, but it's _so_ good. It's all about the garlic and the – Ohh, Randy, _look_!" Meg gestured wildly at the television, the stained glass windows of various cathedrals being shown as part of a segment on Western Europe.

"I thought you were Russian?" Randy teased, but knew Meg had a soft sport for Europe in general, along with many of its cathedrals and churches – and had been corrected by her enough times to know full well that Russia lay on both sides of the Urals.

"There's so much I miss about the job. Seeing you all the time, absolutely that. But after that...the travel. I used to lie to Jackson about that all the time. I mean – I really didn't do the clubs and restaurants, though the restaurants would have been wonderful. But...the travel. I loved the travel. I always wished I had more time to sightsee. There's so much history, and so many churches..." Meg trailed off, swirling her wine around the glass.

"It's not a religious thing for you, is it?" _'We never really talked about this...but maybe it's a good way to bring up the sex thing? Maybe. You've been drinking.'_

"Sometimes, sorta, but not the way you think. My parents were nuts about it. _So_ religious. Me...there's a difference between faith and religion. I want to have faith that there's good for good in the world. And bad for bad. That there's a purpose, and something's looking out for us. Think about it – how many amazingly good people have you known in your life?"

Oddly, his mind rushed back to Eddie. Randy shivered and nodded quickly. "A...a few, yeah."

"Present company excluded, I know." Meg tittered and nudged Randy. "Well...wouldn't you want something good to be out there for those people? Not a reward, per-se, but just something better than all the bullshit we live through while we're here?" Meg stretched up off the couch and went back to the kitchen, dropping the pasta into the water, trying to subtly roll out her ankle as she moved. _'I should try and find someone to take a look at that mess. Feeling stiff I understand; feeling like I still can't walk is just wrong.'_

Back on the sofa, Randy watched the program pan through cathedral after cathedral, each window more ornate than the last, France then Italy, Germany then England, finally closing with the Hagia Sofia.

Already on overload from Meg's perfume, along with every aroma pouring from the kitchen, each taste and texture in his mouth from whatever concoction she'd put on the bread, the structure landed on his eyes and refused to let go. Gold and marble, restored and broken, equal parts glittering and dull, two faiths half-exposed and warring in its interior, he found himself leaning closer and closer to the television, enthralled by each section. The precious stones remained surrounding the Virgin and Child in their mosaic even though the archangels Gabriel and Michael were ruined around them, then Emperor Alexander and Empress Zoe, with husbands and wives repeatedly changed, painted, removed, the detailed work on the mihrab in the apse, and the depth of the green in the stone marking the seat of the Empress in the loge.

The story of the weeper's column almost brought his hand to the screen, curious to feel if the stone really was wet, curiouser still to know what ailment it would remove from him. _'I know what I want for you, Meg. I know I want to keep you...safe, mine, and I know there are things I'm not going to say, because they don't need to be said. We're both smart, we're both stupid. And I think we both know we're gonna take our chances on this one.'_

"...Right, Ran?"

He snapped his head towards Meg, still standing in the kitchen, holding up two bottles of wine. "I'm sorry, Meg. I was lost. I -" Randy realized he was perched on the edge of her couch, hand still extended. "- I dunno what."

"You okay? I was just asking if you thought pinot noir was gonna work with dinner. It's lamb and veal in the sauce; Sarah bought half a wine store. The tiramisu's all set. I can pick something else if you don't like this one."

Easing off the sofa, the gold and marble, lamb and wine, stone and saints all tangling in his thoughts, Randy picked up both of their glasses and ambled toward the kitchen. "Yeah, Meggie, I'm fine. Sorry, sorry. Just...kinda caught up in the cathedrals. And thinking."

"Yeah, I thought I saw the poor hamster fall over dead." Meg elbowed him gently and rinsed their glasses before filling them with the pinot noir. "Go ahead and get comfortable at the ta...oh, fuck. That's not gonna work, is it?" Meg's dining table was pitifully small, and while it suited her frame, there was no way Randy was going to angle into it and still have room to eat. Angrily, she flung the pasta into the sauce to finish, rubbing her hand across her forehead, trying to work away a band of tension before going back to stirring. _'You see, Meg? It. Doesn't. Work. You can try as hard as you want, and it doesn't work. Stop fucking pretending. The only reason you pulled your bullshit with Joe as long as you did was because he never asked to see where you lived.'_

Randy's hands closed around hers over the pan, gently at first, then tighter when he felt how hard she was shaking. "Meggie, what's the matter? Putting dinner on the table? If your collarbone's bothering you, it's not like I can't lift a bowl or plate for you. It's okay." He rubbed her hands between his fingers, her palms cold, shaking harder and harder despite his offer of help. "That's not it, is it?" Gently, he eased the spoon out of her hand, rested it on the edge of the pan, and pulled her arms around herself, still trapped under his.

"Dinner can sit for a minute. Meg, listen to me. Don't look, don't think, just listen. When I'm at my house, it's empty. I have a kitchen I don't know how to use, my rooms are all empty, I don't know what to do with myself...it sucks. I pace. I can't sleep. I don't eat. You know I don't take care of my back. I don't take care of _anything_. I came over here because I wanted to be where you are. And if that means coming to your apartment, or coming to your mansion, or coming to your cardboard box, then I'm there. Okay? So I'm going to put the plate, or the bowl, or the bucket, or whatever, on the table, we're going to make plates, sit wherever, drink too much wine, and enjoy tonight."

Meg rested her head against the inside of his arm, worming one hand free to reach for the spoon and stir the pasta and sauce one last time. Gently, she kissed the crook of his elbow, and tried to compose herself before half-turning to face him.

"Yeah, we have a lot to talk about tonight. A lot-lot."

"I know, Meg. I know. The first thing is going to be where you learned to do all this." He watched her awkwardly lift the pan of pasta from the stove and reached over to help her, letting her guide him toward a serving platter, but then found himself fighting her tilt to pour the pasta out.

"No, no. Always pour away from yourself. When it splashes, it doesn't land on you." She corrected his roll with the handle, and sent him to the table with the platter before lifting the much lighter bowl of salad and smaller dish of grated parmesan, following behind him. Pasta piled and salad loaded, silverware and napkins in hand, Randy snagged Meg by a beltloop on her jeans as she shifted her weight nervously from foot to foot, unsure of what to offer him for seating.

"Easy solution, Meggie. Plus, I have something to make up for, anyway. Follow me." Led by memory, Randy shuffled toward her bedroom, Meg creeping along behind him. He put his plate on the nightstand next to the bed, settled in, and patted the space next to him. "C'mon. It's like-"

"-At the bay." Meg placed her plates next to to his and crept into the bed next to him, kissing him deeply. "Hang on. All we need is the wine."

"Magdalena." Randy's tone was suddenly low, and he held her, refusing to let her leave so quickly. "You're coming back."

Meg quirked an eyebrow; it wasn't often Randy told her what to do, but she hustled her way back to the kitchen and gathered the bottles and a corkscrew. When Meg made it back to the bedroom, her weight awkwardly off-balance from trying not to bang the glass bottles together, she caught Randy mid-bite, an expression of bliss on his face. She smiled and came in the room as quietly as she could manage.

* * *

><p>"You caught me. This is <em>so<em> good. Unreal."

"C'mon. First, you say that about everything I make. And second, it's totally not as good as the room-temp chicken salad from catering."

Randy elbowed her, smiling, and reached around her to grab her plate. "Hush. And eat. And _please,_ no talk about that chicken salad. I remember the food poisoning. I think half the roster does."

Meg snorted, but managed a quiet meal leaning against Randy's arm, trying to formulate her next question in a way that wouldn't upset him. Randy chased a noodle around his plate before giving up and going after lettuce instead. Meg leaned over and twirled the noodle for him, holding her fork up before moving his now-empty plates to the side, stacking hers on top, and waiting to see if he'd take the lead on their conversation. Their silence wasn't uncomfortable; Meg understood it was his way of getting his words right before he said them.

He didn't speak, merely handed his wine glass over to Meg and began to look around her room while she poured. The walls were still the odd middle-beige shade he remembered, but she'd finally personalized a bit. A large, black-and-white print of the St. Louis skyline flanked the sliding glass door to the small balcony. Nearby, the hoodie that she'd taken from him in Tampa was hung over the knobbed corner of a tilting, full-length mirror. She'd finally bought a laptop and a digital camera – they were on a small, circular table in the corner – but the headphones that dangled near her iPod, also on on the table in its dock, were still cheap-looking. Pens and journals were scattered on the surface of her dresser, along with bottles of rose perfume and phials of rose oil, some lotions, and two framed photos at its corner, near the door.

He grinned at one of them; in it, he'd pulled Meg into a sweaty hug after a steel cage match and John had taken the picture of them together, sending it to Randy's phone later: Meg's face was a shocked, wrinkle-nosed smile, Randy was running high on adrenaline and leaning in to rub all over her, knowing how much she disliked sweat. When he received the photo on his phone later, it'd sparked a hell of a fight between him and his girlfriend at the time; it was the beginning of the end of that particular relationship. The other photo he didn't recognize immediately; it wasn't local, there was too much water, but it didn't look like Tampa or New Orleans, either.

"You said you were making up for something?" Meg's voice was small, and she passed him a glass of wine he hadn't realized she'd refilled. Slowly, Randy sipped at it, rolling the wine around his mouth, thinking.

_'This is the easy question.'_ "Yeah...we...earlier, it was all just a mess before you left, that whole thing with Dave, and I just wanted to stay in bed with you, after we...I know it's not _exactly_ the same thing, but I thought we could just lay here together. I didn't want it to feel like we just hooked up and then you left, you know? I didn't want you to have to leave."

Meg curled closer to him, her shirt beginning to wrinkle upwards. "I know, Ran. And I didn't feel like you were trying to get me in bed and then get me out the door. You're not like that."

Randy cringed, openly, and stared directly into his wine glass before drinking as though it'd solve all the world's ills. "Meggie...you _do_ know I'm like that." He swayed the empty glass back and forth between his fingers until she reached out to his hand, first to still the glass, then to refill it. "You...saw all the bullshit I pulled, every time I pulled it. Everything I did. Everyone I fucked. Fucked over. Mostly, fucked."

"So...you think it's gonna bother me?"

"Meg...yeah. Honestly? Yeah. I worry you're gonna leave me. You're gonna realize I've done some really miserable shit, maybe not like Jackson, but still like a fucking idiot, and you're not gonna want to deal with it, or with me, and you're gonna walk away. You're gonna get tired of cleaning up my mess, because I keep fucking up. How many times have I said it's the one thing I'm good at?"

His voice was starting to catch, and Meg pulled his wine from his hands, leaning over him to set it on the small bedside table near him. When she leaned back, his eyes were closed as though he was bracing for some sort of damage to come at him from her small frame. Meg simply pulled his head against her chest, wrapping her arms as much around him as she could, pulling her knees up into him, amused at their size difference and how little of him she could actually hold.

"Keep me?" His voice was muffled against her, breath hot through her shirt, and her fingernails scratched gently up and down the back of his neck. His arms felt desperate as they snaked around her, restlessly searching for a way to hold her that settled him but finding none.

"Keep you? Jesus Christ, Randy – look at what I've done to people – and you're asking if you're the more guilty party? Oh my God. No." She urged him, as much as she could, to turn in her lap and half-look up at her, surprised to see the sadness in his eyes. "Hey. Ran. Ran, look at me. _Really_ look at me. What the fuck else would I do except keep you? This is home; of course I'm going to keep you. I'm afraid one day you're going to look around, _really_ look around, realize what a shitheap you wandered in to, and wander right back out."

It was Meg's turn for her voice to catch, and Randy looked up at her, curious. "The table?"

"The table, yeah. The tiny, shitty apartment. You're laying on a bed I don't even own. This whole apartment fits into, what, your laundry room?" Meg sighed heavily. "My job is nice, but it's nothing like yours. I'm not like the women you're around every day – they're beautiful, they're talented, they're...normal. Randy...you're slumming it, here. Jackson knew he was the whole time. Joe never had a chance to figure it out because we were on the road, but he would have eventually. And now you know, so I dunno where we go from here, because it's going to get old or embarrassing, and I can tell you right now I am _not_ going to ride around on your coattails."

"I can't tell if you want to start an argument with me or with yourself." Randy was vacillating between hurt and confused, but he knew Meg wasn't 'done' yet – hadn't worked out the last of the kinks from Jackson and Joe, and certainly had no idea what to do with a relationship in which both parties believed they were tainted. "You make it sound like I'm gonna treat you like they did. And I never offered to let you ride on my checkbook."

Meg startled. "I...no. No. I wasn't trying to start anything. I don't know what I'm doing. If I'm telling you or telling myself. You're not them, Randy, I know that. My heart knows, logically I know, and then there's something in my head that tells me it's going to go to shit, I'm going to fuck up, and you're going to get sick of dragging some dirty whore around behind you."

"Funny, I could say the same thing. You're not Sam, you're not _anyone_ else. And sometimes I look at you and I'm fucking terrified that you're going to see this drunk, angry asshole who used to punch things and fuck anything that smiled and said yes, and then you're going to walk away." He turned away from her lap just long enough to drink from his wine glass, then buried his face back into her shirt.

"And I don't _care_ about that. I mean, I do, because of how she – they – hurt you...but I don't care about it in any way that's gonna make me look at you and say no."

"Then, Meg, why do you think I look at you, or here, or anything else, and think something's wrong with you?"

"Because it's..."

"Keep me." He sat up long enough to reach over her, hand her wine glass to her, and settle back into her arms. "Yesterday I said I didn't care that you had a past, and tonight you said you didn't care that I have one, so keep me. Because I'm going to keep you. Okay? That's got to be enough for now, because you're not Sam or anyone else I fucked, and I'm not Jackson or Joe. We can't both...I dunno. We can't both _do_ this, this way. Don't think like I'm too good for you, Meg. I wouldn't be here if you didn't get me through my shit."

Meg slammed her head back into the headboard of the bed startlingly hard; Randy both winced and jumped. "And that's great, but do you understand that you've _gotten_ through at least some of your shit? You can actually point to what was wrong and talk about it and _know_ what those things are? All I know is I'm your ex-friend's sloppy seconds, I'm Jackson's...fuck. I don't even _remember_ most of what he did because of that fucking car; I can look at myself and see the things that are wrong _now_, but I don't know why they're there. So...I'm just Jackson's fuck. I used to look at _you_ and see things. Hear things. Thank fuck _that_ stopped, because that was gonna kill me, that my mind was turning me around on you."

She closed her eyes and tried to take the anger out of her voice; it wasn't anger at him, it was exhaustion, and she wasn't sure he would know the difference. "So please, Randy, try...just...to understand? I _want_ to keep you, I _want_ all of this to be enough, and if I got you through your shit in one piece then I guess I did at least one thing right...but please don't sit there and tell me that you aren't too good for me, because I know you _are._"

Randy simply adjusted himself in her lap, burrowing in deeper, trying to press his weight as firmly over her as he could without crushing her. "Just keep me, Meg. When you realize I'm not, just keep me."

Meg shook her head and sighed, stroking her fingers down the side of his face, understanding and not understanding his stubbornness, and thankful that he hadn't asked any questions about what she'd just said. _'He will, eventually. And I could probably handle a few, tonight. Just not all of it.'_ She watched his eyes in the mirror, as they traveled back across the room to the pictures on the edge of her dresser. "You remember those?"

"One, yeah. You _hate_ sweat. I didn't know John was gonna get us with his phone, though."

"I'm glad he did. You look happy."

"You kidding? Kicked some ass _and_ got to gross you out. Win-win. I don't remember the other one, though."

"Yeah you do, Ran. It's the bay."

Randy slid forward across her lap, squinting at the photograph. Slowly, it came together – the resort was in the distance, on the left, hills, fog, the birds caught mid-dive in the frame, and he realized she must have taken it from the parking lot of the marina. "Before you left?"

"Mmh. Second favorite place I've ever been to."

"How come?"

"'Cause I found you there. Wanna know the first favorite?" Meg smiled down at him, the barest hint of a giggle in her voice.

_'This is way better than the conversation three minutes ago. Let's stick with this.' _"What's the first favorite, Meggie?"

"Right here, because you're in bed with me." She hefted him up using her knees, and placed a gentle kiss on the bridge of his nose, though Randy could feel her right leg start to shake underneath him. He shifted his weight off of her, under the guise of taking her wine glass, and looked up at her bedroom door. "I think you said something about dessert?"

"Be right back." Meg pushed him down onto her bed and shushed his protests, taking their plates with her, though he called after her that he thought he was supposed to be helping. Two generous portions later, Meg hustled down the hall back to Randy, who had taken the opportunity to lean out over her balcony despite the chill in the air. He passed her wine back to her as she passed dessert to him, both of them watching cars and people pass by as they ate.

* * *

><p>"I don't know how you do all this."<p>

"All what?" Meg looked confused, shivered, and tucked in under his arm.

"This. Put up with my big dumb ass, find time to cook like this, babysit your friend, work...just..."

"And one more thing. We're gonna have to work around it, so you're gonna have to talk to Dave about what to do with your rehab."

"Whassat? You're not moving again, Meg, I swear to God, if you-"

"Oh, shut up. You know I'm not moving. I want to finish my RN." _'Dave made me swear not to say why, so that's all you get.'_ "All it means is that I'll have some class stuff to do. And since I'm technically not supposed to be within fifty feet of _anything_ medical that's related to you, I have no idea what kind of bullshit you and Dave are working out to cover it. I don't think I _want_ to know. I want to do what you need me to do...it's just gonna have to be around some college shit, is all."

Randy spun Meg around. "Seriously?" He tipped her back against the railing, watched her eyes go dangerously wide, then glassy, then snapped her in against his chest. "Fuck. Fuck, fuck I'm sorry Meg, I didn't mean that, not backwards like that, I'm just happy you want to get your RN, I didn't mean to-"

"You're okay with it?" her voice was small, and she sounded almost scared to ask.

"Meg, are you serious? I know how much you wanted to go back – you talked about that all the time – and now you _can_, and this is _great_, are you kidding? I didn't mean to flip you back like that, I just fucked up."

"As long as you're okay with it..." She trailed off. "No, I know you're okay with it. C'mon, let's go in. It's cold."

Randy let her slip through the door ahead of him, rolling his eyes at himself and calling himself everything he could think of as she passed him. _'Wonderful. Push her back into a railing, right over the edge of a balcony, because that isn't going to trigger her at all, you giant dumbfuck. Could you do anything else more intelligent, or is that gonna be the highlight of the night?'_

"You in there, or you still thinking about cathedrals? I'm gonna have to buy you a replacement hamster if you keep it up." While Randy was busy berating himself, Meg had kicked her clothing into a heap in the corner and was half under her blankets, wine in hand, bra straps slipping.

"I'm about to be _there_. Jesus, Meg. You kill me. And don't ever change anything." He gestured towards her shoulders, knowing she wouldn't have a clue what he meant, but in his mind there were limes in summer, the bed in the resort, and bra straps he never wanted to stay in place. "More making up for earlier sound good?"

"_Anything_ with you sounds good. And...thank you. For being okay with the RN thing. And hopefully with the iPod...it kicks on later. If there's no background noise, I can't sleep. You...know how I get."

Now down to boxers, Randy sprawled next to Meg, who immediately rolled over him, abandoning her blankets, and began to massage his back. It wasn't long after that he was asleep, unable to remember a time he felt safer, more comfortable, more loved, and less afraid of the word and all its repercussions.


	24. Split Screen

Merry Christmas, I wrote you all an update!

Songs are: Adagio for Strings, Hallelujah (the Jeff Buckley version), Crucify, and Take me to Church. Lyrics are incomplete (you will have to parse them out from dialogue; this is intentional) Artists are available via PM.

If anyone is really motivated, there's also a choral arrangement for Adagio for Strings.

Special thanks to nattiebroskette, as always. My belle, my boo, my bestie! (Even my busted-hip buddy!)

Special-special hugs to SweetHigh, who will always have a home up here in freezing-ass Michigan, as soon as I figure out the Visa process, ChelleLew for being a review machine (Seriously, you did all that?), BlackHat for epic potato inspiration, ShieldGirl because the MUSE IS BACK!, EyexLinerxWhore for still having the coolest name ever and being ultra-supportive, and:

mxjoyride, because she wrote something new, kinky, and dear lord. Just, whew!

I'm still feeling Christmassy, so this one is half-mush (Don't worry, MetalMayhem, Randy will not be all mush all the time – there are twists ahead) and half "Let The Games BEGIN!"

I encourage everyone to keep their hands inside the ride and double-check the height requirement.

All PMs, notes, comments, reviews, critque, inconsistency, etc etc etc is welcome. Feed me the writer-catnip!

* * *

><p>Meg covered Randy with a quilt before kissing him lightly, locking her front door, and turning off the lights in her apartment. She lowered the volume on her iPod a few clicks before she settled in next to him under the quilt, and prayed for sleep to come quickly. <em>'I'm still such a mess. A mess with a headache; I think I went for closed-head-injury-number-two when I planted into the headboard like that. If he wants to throw me in bed til he gets bored with it, then fine. It wouldn't be the first time. I just have to tell myself that's all it is.'<em> Satisfied that she'd, for the moment, come up with her own private solution to her problem, Meg began to drift off.

* * *

><p>It wasn't long after Meg had settled against Randy, one arm draped over his neck, one hand settled on his inner thigh, legs knit through his, that he woke up half-aware of music in the room and her fingernails trailing along his leg. <em>'I'm not gonna know half of what she listens to, am I?'<em> He shifted his hand to cover hers, and the tension in her fingers disappeared, though it was a bit like pressing an ice pack into his thigh. Randy slid individual locks of hair away from his face and up over hers, the music still lilting through the room.

Luckily or unluckily, or with the foresight only an alcoholic can develop after years of practice at the craft, Sarah really had bought out half the store. Randy and Meg had made only a small dent in the stock of wine bottles she'd provided for them. Carefully, slowly, Randy flattened himself out on the bed, slid out from under Meg, and leaned as far out as he could, grabbing the first bottle that met his fingers. Scanning for the corkscrew, he realized he'd have to roll over Meg, in the opposite direction, to get it. _'Please don't wake up and freak out...it's just me...and I need something to take my mind off everything.'_ Arching as far as he could over her, he managed to grab the corkscrew off the table near the bed without disturbing her beyond an irritated clutch of her fingernails into his thigh as he adjusted back around her, rolling her over him, pulling her up the bed with him so that he was seated half up the headboard, within better reach of the remaining wine.

_'This one I do know, but fuck if half the locker room wouldn't give me shit for it. Minus Claudio. He'd try to turn it into a discussion.' _Quietly, Adagio for Strings seeped into every crevice of the bedroom, heavy with sorrow that could make the listener curse the same God they called to on their knees. The kind of music that was more smoke than sound, it grabbed hold of him while he worked the corkscrew down and then back up, trying to guess without looking at what he'd selected. Deciding he didn't care, he drank directly from the bottle, looking down at Meg, who'd huffed half-irritated, rearranged her arms across him, and sleepily kissed his chest. Her medallion had tangled through one of her bra straps, and Randy gently unwound it before deciding against readjusting the strap. _'This sounds like her. Feels like her. Sad. Sad and...not angry, but hurt.'_ He drank again, set the wine to the side, and tried to dose off, breathing in the scent of her hair. Peace came, but briefly.

He wondered if it would be all instrumental, or if she'd set the songs so that an occasional lyric or line would filter into his brain just long enough to knock a memory down from the shelf and onto the floor of his consciousness. They tended to raise cloud after cloud of dust from the past, fancies and failures, and he knew before long the air of his mind would be too thick with soot to allow room for sleep if that were the case.

The next time he woke, it was because Meg's leg had shot up across his front, narrowly missing a direct kick to his crotch, and she was starting a stranglehold around his neck. Rather than wake her up, he pried her arm loose and pushed her leg down, mindful that it was her right and not her left, and held her until the fight went out of her. A squinted look at the wall clock, barely visible in the parking-lot light, told him it took nearly half an hour before she was calm. _'This is what she's like with the distraction and the noise. Wonder what she's like without?'_ He reached for the wine, kissing her shoulders between each drink, and debating the merits of opening a second bottle after finishing the first. Rationalizing that it was only 2:15, he slid his hand around the bottom edge of the bed, bumping gently into another full bottle. Something unsteady, a guitar, began to play, and he was vaguely aware of how unsteady he felt as it continued. The voice wavered, his hands wavered, and he nearly hit her in the head with the wine as he struggled to open it. _'And my hands are shaking...why?'_ Randy inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, and forced the corkscrew solidly down, feeling the pliable substance give, creak, imagining Jackson's bones doing the same under his force. The voice in the room swelled, Randy drank, Meg lifted her lips up to his neck, and he felt himself smile around the mouth of the bottle.

_'You don't really care for music...well, sometimes, Meg. Who is this?'_ Randy drank again, and looked down at Meg for a hint, though he knew none was coming. She'd fallen back into a brick-like slumber, her lips where she'd left them against him. _'Baby, I've been here before, I've seen this room and I've walked this floor – I used to live alone before I knew you...but I've seen your flag on the marble arch, and our love is not a victory march, it's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah...Meg, what the fuck is this? Meg?'_ He felt something cold crawl over him, worse than her skin, memories causing the feelings he'd gotten every time the phone rang and the number was unknown or unlisted, every time he'd called the hospital and they'd had no news they were willing to give him, every time he'd looked at the photos Remy had sent him.

Just as suddenly, he her hand slid up his chest and back down, settling the hateful soot and oddly, his mind chose to replace it with diamond dust of stained glass and pebbly jewels from the murals at the Hagia Sofia, cloves of garlic, flakes of ash from their campfire at the bay, bits of burnt marshmallow, hummingbirds around their balcony in Tampa, and Randy felt his chokehold around the wine bottle relax. _'Broken might be alright. Who is this, Meg?'_ He rolled the more-pleasant fragments around, preferring those to the alternatives, nursing the wine along and twisting the ends of her hair over and around his fingers. Occasionally, he traced his fingers along the chain of her medallion, amused that she'd never switched it from the longer one he'd worn back to her original, more delicate one. _'It's not a cry that you hear at night, it's not someone who's seen the light, it's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah – we might be, Meg, but we're here. Kept.'_ Randy closed his hand around hers, and drank til he was ready to sleep, making sure the bottle was solidly on the table before he drifted off.

The final time he woke, Meg had laid herself on and around him, hips curled between his legs, her chest over his. It was her fingernails, again, that got to him – they weren't sharp, but they were individual points of tension pulsing against his skin, deeper and deeper as her mind dragged her through whatever nightmare pictorial it had concocted. Deciding to finish what he'd started, and figuring 3:30 wasn't too late for zinfandel, he compressed both of her hands into one of his, and reached for the remaining wine with the other. Meg writhed against him, mumbling vague words and names, but stayed in his lap. _'I've been looking for a savior in these dirty streets, looking for a savior beneath these dirty sheets – who, Meg, you or me? Where do you find this shit? Maybe this is part of the problem of you not sleeping?_ Randy glowered over at the iPod, but knew he couldn't do much from his position on the bed. _'Nothing I do is good enough for you, crucify myself, I wish you'd let me get you out of here, Meg. Stay with me. Stop doing this to yourself.' _There wasn't going to be enough wine in the bottle to make it to morning, Randy knew that. He wanted to turn the music off, could feel through himself and back again that it was the whole problem with Meg – at least, in _that_ moment, was what was igniting the tinder in her mind – but if he moved, he risked sparking a different fire. He put the wine back.

"Go on, you fucking evil thing. What's the next one, 'Songs On Killing Yourself, B-Minor'?" Randy's hissed question was bitter, and the glowing rectangle in the corner of the room didn't care one way or the other about his irritation. The woman's voice was followed by a man's, and it was yet another song Randy didn't care for. He'd heard it on the radio while trying to fill the void in his house with anything, sound included. It didn't work, the void spread and became all-consuming, as did his pacing, but he'd started to learn the words just from exposure, knew what was coming, and suddenly hated himself. _'Why did she pick this? What the fuck is this saying? - Knows everybody's disapproval, should've worshiped her sooner - Meg, you aren't dirty. I know I should have found you sooner. I didn't mea – like a dog at the shrine of your lies – Meg, I'm not lying to y – fine looking high horse – I told you, you aren't beneath me, this isn't abo -'_

The room was starting to whirl dangerously around him, her fingers and fingernails still working under his hand as though they meant to draw blood, and he knew she was calling his name. It was a whisper at first, but her legs were starting to push her upward, unfurl her over him, up onto his shoulder, closer and closer, and Randy felt the same panic come over him that he felt when he was in Vancouver, drowning in tequila, didn't know where she was, even though now she was in his arms. Here, however, Randy didn't know where her mind was, if she was running to or from him in her dream – _'no masters or kings when the ritual begins, no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin, Meg, fucking stop this, wake up' – _and he started to push her back down, pry her hands apart and off of him, do anything to get her off of him so he could turn it off, but she'd become a vine around him and whatever he'd managed to untangle simply wound itself around him somewhere else. _'In the madness and soil of that sad earthly scene, only then I am human, only then I am clean, Meg, wake the fuck up, wake up, I'm done with this!' _Randy, gave up on gentle and shoved her down him to the foot of the bed, earning himself a wide-eyed and terrified yelp for his effort, while he lunged for the iPod and snatched it off the base.

Meg clutched the quilt to her chest, eyes fixed on Randy, who held the iPod out in front of him as though it was a reason and excuse, his eyes equally fixed on Meg. Neither spoke. Meg was the first to move, dropping the quilt and edging off of the bed toward Randy. The wine bottles hadn't gone unnoticed by her, nor had his shaking hand, or the fingernail scratches in a small patch on his chest.

"Easy, easy. C'mere. What got you?" Meg took the small green rectangle from his hand, tossed it behind him on her dresser, and walked him back to the bed, trying to rub his arms as she moved him.

"Fuck, Meg, I'm sorry. I dunno. I'm drunk. I hurt you?"

"That's okay, Ran. You didn't. Music woke you up?" She sat him down on the bed and knelt in front of him.

"Kinda got in my head." He wiped his hands over his face, and looked over her shoulder at the iPod, still glowing on the dresser. "Turn it off?"

Meg cringed, but did as he asked, walking to her dresser and holding up the small, green object, pressing the bottom button til the screen dimmed. "It's off, but now we have to trade."

"Trade?" Randy slid up the bed, pulling the blankets up over himself. The cold sweat that covered his skin after his near panic attack had been replaced by a coat of goosebumps, despite the high heat of Meg's apartment.

"Yeah, trade. You sleep, and I drink. Put the bottles and the corkscrew on this side, and tuck under." She knelt on the bed, cradling his face in her hands, trying to read his eyes.

"Meggie, I'm sorry, I just fuck up, I drank too much, I'm just drunk, it's not-"

"Ran? It's _fine."_ Meg swung her legs over him, pushing the blankets down, then pulling them back up over herself, adjusting so he could work a pillow against her arm without aggravating her collarbone. "You can be drunk. I think that was part of the plan tonight, right? Drink too much?" He'd settled in against her, and she kissed the top of his head. "Besides, I said you worked through _some_ of your shit. Not all of it. The rest, we figure out together, because a lot of it...a lot of it I put you through. So...if you want it quiet, then it's gonna be quiet. That's the least I can give you."

He pressed back into her, grumbling, muttering that he was stupid, the whole thing was stupid, to go put it back on, he was being a bitch, act like a man, and it occurred to Meg -

"Hey, Randy?"

"Whassat, Meggie?"

"What song was it?"

"Aw, fuck, Meg, you know I dunno the names of that shit..." _'I can tell you every word, Meg; I just won't.'_

Meg uncorked another zinfandel, drank deeply, and then rubbed the pad of her thumb over the patch of scratches she'd put on Randy's chest. He was almost asleep when she spoke again, softly. "I can guess which one, Ran. You're not hearing it the right way, though. You're hearing what got lost; think about what we found." In the same quiet voice, Meg re-started the final song, singing over Randy's head, lilting Amen, telling him they worshiped in the bedroom, their sweet, gentle sin, that she had finally been made clean, Amen, Amen.

_'Wasn't I listening to you? No? Amen. Amen.'_ Randy shook his head, felt the red wine grab hold, and let go.

* * *

><p>Dave rolled his eyes, thankful he had the good sense to turn his back to Joe <em>before<em> he did it. _'What was it Randy always said? Cocksucking motherfucker? Something like that. It applies here.'_ He plastered a smile on his face before turning around again.

"Feeling good to be back, big man? Shitty squash matches aside, that is."

"Yeah. Fuck that, it's not like I'm gonna come back with ring rust." Joe worked through a series of stretches, pulling on the elastic bands Dave had picked up while he'd turned around. "First they put me in with that glitter-covered asshole and his slut of the week, and then they follow it up with a win by countout. I have _never_ had a crowd call me boring! Ever!"

"Don't let them get in your head, Joe. It's just temporary. Make sure everything's back the way it should be." _'Holy shit, Joe, calm down. It's not that serious. Nick had shit matches for years; you've had two dogs in one week after a major surgery. Can you get a little perspective, or is your black card maxed out for the purchase?'_

Joe huffed, but continued his stretches as Dave continued down his checklist. After a tense silence, Joe looked around the room and seemed to double-check that the door was shut behind him. "So...uh...is everything cool with Meg? I wouldn't ask, but...that day, she said she was gonna come back after chuckles decided to swing on me, and she never showed."

"Yeah...I don't know what that was about." Dave lied through his teeth. _'And you better leave her alone, you piece of shit. As much as I think she needs another relationship like she needs ebola, she's doing better. Leave. Her. Alone.'_ "Honestly, I think she just got scared. I know she checked on Randy after she checked on you, but after that? In the wind. She probably holed up in her apartment for a while. You know Meg. Hides when she can, and when she can't – she hides anyway." _'Or, maybe she doesn't owe you anything? Including her cell minutes? They get expensive at peak usage, you know, and not everyone has massive pay contracts like you.'_

"Yeah, if that was a paying job she'd have us all beat." Joe gave a dry chuckle, switched arms and bands, and continued. "But...it's weird. She doesn't answer my calls, either. I don't know where she's staying, if she's working...all I've got is her number. And believe me, I _know_ it's her number. She's still got that tool on her voicemail recording." Joe's voice dropped to a growl.

_'I should tell her to let Randy re-record the entire thing for her, then. Maybe you'd take the hint.'_ "Maybe she's trying to give you space? She knows you've got a fiancee, and that was hard on her the first time you both dealt with that."

Joe snapped into Dave's space, crowding him at such high speed that Dave stepped back awkwardly, trying to avoid colliding with him. "And you mean _what_, exactly?

Dave, caught off-guard by Joe's sudden movement, didn't know if he should be confused by the behavior or irritated by the games. "What the fuck, Joe?" The room they were in was empty except for them, and the door was shut; Joe's behavior was also completely erratic. "You _know_ what I mean. You and Meg were both sick over each other when you were engaged. She fell hard for you, you fell hard for her. If you're back with your ex, Meg isn't going to want to fuck that up for you. She cares about you too much to hurt you like that."

"She cares about me?" Joe's rage decelerated so quickly Dave wondered if he'd imagined his lunge and verbal snap entirely.

"Well...she stayed with you that night, didn't she? She's at least talked to you a little bit on the phone, right? I think Meg is trying to figure herself out, before she puts anyone else in a position to have to deal with her. Trying to figure out what she can handle, what she's going to lay on other people...shit like that." _'Think, Dave...talk your way out of this without committing Meg to anything, and without getting beaten to death. Nobody will hear you scream, literallly.' _

"You talk to her, though, right?" Joe was insistent again, overly close to Dave. "You know where she lives. Does she talk about me?"

"Yeah...and yeah...and yeah, sometimes. But, Joe...you _do_ have a fiancee...you have to keep that in mind, because Meg's going to keep that in mind. She's gonna be looking at you from a friendship kinda way, unless you're planning on ending your engagement."

"You know what? That's not _your_ fucking problem." Joe had wrapped the elastic band around his fist, which loomed ominously over Dave's head. "I can _have _whatever I want. I can talk to Meg. She stopped talking to me for no reason. If that reason is Randy, I want to know, because that's _bullshit_. Is it because of him?"

"I don't think it's because of Randy. Truly, Joe, I think it's just because you're back with your ex. Meg's trying to be respectful of that. She's asked me a few times how you're doing; I've always told her you look healthy and you seem happy. Am I wrong in that?"

"Yes! No. No! I don't know. I don't want to think about her, but I can't stop thinking about her. I should just get married already, just shut the bitch up and be done with it. Why is Meg avoiding me?" Joe was starting to ramble, pace in small circles, and Dave was edging around the exam table in the small room, trying to put space between himself and the larger, angrier man.

"Joe, I have no idea. She might be busy with work, she might be in therapy, she might be avoiding you, she might be avoiding _everyone_. I don't know. What do you want?"

"What do I want?" Joe's face split into a taut, evil smile. "I want to know where she lives, but you're not going to tell me that, are you?" Dave shook his head. _'Be careful, Dave. You know I can make you tell me. And you know I can make you not tell anyone else how it happened.'_

"You know I won't do that without Meg's permission, Joe. I don't do that to anyone here, or anyone who was here. It's an issue of respect."

Next time you talk to her, tell her she _has_ to call me. It's _important_. I _need_ to talk to her. That's all." He unwrapped the elastic band from his fist, and tossed it into a pile at Dave's feet. "See you around, ol' man. Good talk, good talk. Let my girl know I'm waiting on her call." Joe jogged off in the general direction of the locker rooms, humming as he went.

Dave bent to pick up the elastic band; it was coated in sweat from Joe's hand. "_Your_ girl? Joe, what the fuck are you playing at?" _'That's the same shit Randy used to say. Mine. But yours isn't coming from the same place.'_

* * *

><p>Dave waited until he was safely ensconced in his car before calling Meg; he didn't want to risk Joe – or anyone – overhearing the call and making the issue bigger than it needed to be. Randy was still trying to get himself and his spine back together, even on her best of days Meg was still a poorly-wired explosive, and Joe was now a variable for which there was no symbol. He called, hoping she'd pick up, hoping she'd be alone, and hoping she wouldn't have had anything to drink.<p>

Dave got one of his three wishes, which, all things considered, wasn't bad. Meg answered and was with Sarah, but hadn't yet gotten into the whiskey they'd planned on splitting that night. Randy was in the shower, still in Meg's apartment, content to lay around in a towel and steam in the veritable sauna of her apartment while his clothing cycled through her washer and dryer. _'Plus,' he teased, 'I came prepared. After I pretty much invited myself over for dinner, I figured it couldn't get much worse from there.' He pointed to a duffel bag, loaded with laundry and toiletries. 'Only if you don't mind, that is.' Meg kissed him, pushed him into the shower, and said she'd be right back, help himself to the fridge._

'Right back' was turning out to be a little longer than Randy expected, but she left a note on the counter with Sarah's phone number and apartment number, plus a jokey 'Turn Right' written on it, so he didn't figure he should worry too much. He felt trusted around her things, which pleased him, and yet felt absolutely no need to go through them. _'Meg's always told me stuff, when I've asked. Except Jackson. Which I think meant she had no plan...just decided to do all that. Had enough. Which is enough for me.'_ Pleased enough with that answer, he stacked a plate with pasta, adjusted his towel, and headed for the microwave.

* * *

><p>"Dave, he <em>what <em>?" Meg's voice was a cold whisper, and Sarah thumped their drinks down on her counter before either she or Meg had a chance to get in to them.

"Yeah, it was _very_...unsettling. One minute he was normal, joking, kinda annoyed with the fucked-up push he's getting now that he's back, then he was angry that you never came back to see him, then he was ready to kill Randy again, then he said – and I'm fucking serious – said that you _had_ to call him. It was _important._ He asked me where you lived."

"Dave, you didn't tell him. Tell me you didn't tell him."

"Jesus Christ, Meg, of course I didn't tell him, but it's not gonna take him long to put two and two and Orton together."

Meg spun aimlessly, first toward Sarah, who looked just as helpless as Meg felt, then toward the whiskey, which Sarah nudged toward her and Meg gratefully slammed back, earning a whack in the nose from one of the ice cubes in the glass.

"Meg, put the booze down." Dave's tone was fatherly.

"I have to tell Randy. Oh my God. He's going to flip his shit."

"Well, he needs to not flip his shit. Sorry I'm not there to help."

"Help what, set his alarm system? He's gotta deal with it by being an adult. I'll talk to Joe to see what all this is about; Randy can listen if it'll make him feel better, but that's it. They all need to stop acting like it's a middle school playground. I mean, what's Randy gonna do when he goes back?"

"Yeah, about that..." Dave trailed off. "Do you really want those two anywhere near each other?"

"No, but there's not much we can do about it unless they cop to their little dust-up." Meg sighed. "I gotta go, Dave. He's probably wondering if Sarah shoved me _in_ the bottle by now."

Sarah slugged Meg in the arm good-naturedly, and opened her door. "Tell him I said hi. Or whatever noise I usually make." She winked, and shooed Meg into the hallway.

Creaking her apartment door open, Meg found Randy sprawled on the sofa, plate on the coffee table, ESPN on the TV. "Just like home, eh?" She teased, trying to sound lighthearted, and tossed her keys on the counter.

"Better; you're here. My house is empty." He smiled and shifted to make room for her next to him.

_'How do I tell him about this? He's happy right now, everything's good, and here comes Joe. I always pick the winners, don't I?'_ Meg pressed back against him. "Nah, not empty. You've got an endless stock of tequila, and ten bucks says some of it made it into your overnight bag." _'I'll deal with Joe later, and I put Randy through enough already. Tonight, fuck it.'_


	25. Feel It In Your Bones

As always, NATTIEBROSKETTE! You are the bestest :)

* * *

><p>The cold days became sun-starved winter weeks; Randy managed to talk Meg into warmer coats and better gloves due to the brisk Missouri weather she wasn't prepared for, though she refused to let him buy them. <em>'You're too used to the south,' he'd tease, and she'd roll her eyes and make a mental note to buy another scarf.<em>

That was the extent of the way they argued. It hadn't snowed much yet; not in any way that stuck to the ground, and Randy began grumbling about having his lawn service out one last time to do a sweep of the property and check the sprinkler system. Meg, having no idea what to do with a lawn service but knowing several people who worked for them, told him it sounded like a good idea, and left it alone. _'One of those money things, I guess? I wouldn't know, but I can't fault him for it, either.'_

Whatever contractual magic Randy and Dave had drawn up in regards to his physical therapy had seemed to work, and Meg was allowed to do as she pleased with him. Feeling better and better, Randy managed more time in his home gym, then started venturing out in public a bit more. Seeing fans was a nice reminder that he hadn't been forgotten, though the constant attention from women irritated him. _'I wonder if I could talk Meg into a picture? I don't know if that would get us more left-alone, or more focused-on. Nah. Just keep telling her when the stupid shit happens, so she doesn't have to hear about it or see it second-hand.'_

Between Randy's back, work, her rare time with Sarah, and her finals and clinicals, Meg's days were long and her nights longer, especially the ones she spent with Randy. Joe called, called again, and was ignored. She didn't know what to say to him or about him, so she let the voicemails pile up, deleting them only often enough so that Randy and her licensing board would have room to leave her messages if they needed to. _'I should tell him about all this stupid shit with Joe, but what's the point? It won't make it stop, and if I block the number I give him a reason to do something more obnoxious.'_

And oh, the messages. Often drunk, sometimes angry, hysterical, remorseful, threatening, Meg was beginning to be afraid Randy would be angry at her for letting it go on so long without telling him. _'What could I even say to explain this? We were so happy I didn't want to make you unhappy? I didn't think you could have a rational response? I was worried about what Joe would say to me?'_

* * *

><p>Dave was getting worried about what Joe would say to <em>him, <em>as well. He worked hard at never being alone in triage, but his less-than-intrepid assistant had a habit of disappearing at inopportune moments, leaving Dave to fend for himself. Hearing heavy footfalls approaching, he knew it was about to be one of those moments.

"I haven't heard from my girl yet." The door swung shut; Dave heard Joe's familiar growl, then the door latched, locked, but he tried to act as though he thought nothing was amiss.

"Oh, shit – you know what, I meant to tell you, she had clinicals all this week. I'm sorry – that really _is_ my fault." _'Oh, shit – you know what, I shouldn't have mentioned clinicals. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He didn't need to know about that.'_ Dave mentally kicked himself, and knew he had to call Meg and warn her.

"It's not just _this_ week, Dave." Joe's voice was steely. "It's _last _week, the week _before_ that, the week before _that_...I'm beginning to wonder if you told her to call me at _all_." Idly, he picked up a roll of surgical tape, peeling a strip off and inspecting it. He ran it in a perfectly straight line along the edge of the counter and replaced the roll where he'd found it, tapping his fingers along the stripe he'd made before slamming his hands down, making Dave and all of the supplies jump.

"_Okay_, Joe, I get it, you're angry. What do you want me to do? I can't make her pick up the phone. She barely picks up when I call. I don't think she talks to anyone else here. Have you asked around?"

Joe's hands had slid forward, up to the bandage scissors, and Dave felt the room become several degrees colder. "I asked _you._ Maybe I should ask again? _Did_ you tell her to call me?" The way Joe was inspecting the scissors made Dave wonder if he was looking for something in his teeth in the reflection of their metal. They were dangerously close to his face, even for a pair of blunt, snub-nose shears. "You're awfully quiet over there, Dave. You need something to motivate you to talk?"

"Joe, I'm worried about you." He'd edged nearer to the door, but was on the wrong side of the doorknob.

"Oh, I'm worried about me, too. Do you _know_ how expensive weddings are? Flowers, cake, dresses – and it's not just _her_ dress, it's dresses for every single bitch that bitch has ever met in her _life_ – the catering, the booze, the veeen-uuuuue...it's all such a waste. Oh, and please don't forget the rings. Fifteen fucking minutes of blah-blah-blah bullshit, a meal that sucks, sex that you know is gonna suck, and then boom. Ball and chain, the rest of my goddamn life."

"You proposed, like, for-real, for-real, then? Everything's back on?" _'Well, that explains 99.98% of his insanity, and the rest is gonna go into a pee cup _real _quick.'_

"Yep. Back on. And you know her, she wants all this shit done quick, before the credit cards cool off. Dave, I had her rings wrapped up in Meg's old shirts. I kept them like that. I was gonna give them to Meg, just change up the setting. I _loved_ her, and she just walked the fuck out on me like I wasn't shit."

"Okay, Joe. Okay. So you wanna talk to Meg before you do the wedding thing, get some closure, right?" Dave continued edging toward the door, trying to look casual, at times leaning over the exam table, at times elbowing against the wall to fidget with his shoes. _'Keep it moving, Dave, just get around to the door.'_

"Exactly. That's all it is. I know I get...persistent. When she left...there are times I could just kill her for it. God knows it killed me." Joe, nonchalant, drove the bandage scissors directly through the cupboard door over the sink, an explosive bang that froze Dave where he stood. "But I just want to talk to her before I get married. Close all the doors, get her off my mind, make sure there's nothing there." Joe worked the scissors up and down in place, not trying to loosen them but not driving them in deeper, either. "You get that, right, Dave?" Joe looked at Dave over his shoulder, eyes sad, body calm, not an ounce of fight in him, either completely broken or completely sociopathic, then turned back to the scissors and continued to stare.

"Ri-right, Joe. I get it, completely. Just talk. I'll call her again, tell her it's really important. Wedding, and all. I can't _make_ her call, or pick up, but I'll try really hard, okay? Promise." He flashed a watery smile. "Hey...it's getting close to go-time, you got all your loose ends tied up before you go out there? I don't wanna get our company rising star upset..I'll have Corporate Kane up my ass, 'Bad for Business!'" Dave did his best to pantomime Glen, lighten the mood, anything to get Joe out the door.

"See, ol' man? Always lookin' out for me. Just let my girl know, okay? Tell her I said good luck with her clinic shit, or whatever you said it was." Joe, having snapped out of it for the moment, turned from the cupboard and walked out the door, Dave holding it open for him. The split second it closed, Dave bolted it behind him, holding up his phone and snapping a picture of the scissors wedged in the cupboard, trying to decide when to send it to Meg. His heart was racing, and he dug through his bags for a Valium, praying Meg's license exam would come back as a pass, but simultaneously debating his decision to push her through corporate in order to get her another contract with the company, albeit more permanent and better-paying. _'Open mouth, make promise, insert foot, Dave. Good fucking job. Break her heart, why don't you? And his too, if he ever finds out.'_

* * *

><p>"What do you mean, it's just a few dings? You sprayed the entire side of my car – my <em>cars<em> – with gravel! The front door has _dents_ – you wanna tell me how you managed to get gravel up the front porch when the gravel is _only_ in the garden beds? My lawn has _trenches_ dug in it! You were there to _winterize_ a sprinkler system, not _install_ one! Were they confused? At the wrong address?"

"And we'll gladly pay damages, just submit your insurance information to us and -"

"That's not how this works. _You_ have insurance, you send your information to _my_ company, then they set up the repairs. Do you understand how much damage you caused?"

"Sir, really, this is being done as a courtesy. The bottom of the contract states that we're not responsible for damage done to vehicles left unattended, or incidental property damage, so if you could just -"

"I'll call back." Randy cut the line, furious that both of his cars had been peppered with gravel from the service that he'd hired to handle winterizing his lawn while he was out at the gym. He'd overdone it, mistaking his confidence for competence and health, and his back was making him pay for it now. Sore, verging on reinjured and undone, and knowing Meg had a late night, he checked his fridge – then realized he hadn't sent his PA out to the store for groceries. Meg had warned him she would be late due to practicums and wouldn't be able to shop for him, then had warned him again in voicemail, a note she'd placed on his keys, and a perfumed Post-It in his gym bag. With a groan, he opted away from taking the stairs up to his room and headed toward the first-floor guest bedroom, where most of the shirts he kept there had been slept in by Meg and still smelled of her perfume.

The floor was coated in broken glass, and the room was frigid. The same gravel that had been sprayed across his cars and porch in the front had apparently also been sprayed from the garden beds in the back, across the side and the rear of the house, directly through the sliding plate-glass doors of the guest bedroom. _'Which means it nailed the bathroom. Which means it wrecked the stucco. Which means I need to call the gatehouse, have them call the security company, and get the fuck out of here before I completely lose my mind. I have no food, can't get to a shower, two beat-ass-looking cars, a lawn that's chewed to shit – just go. Meg should be back now. She's gonna be the one thing that goes right.'_

Caught in traffic on the way there, Randy knew he'd been spotted. He was being harassed and tailed even though it was well past dark, and he'd tried politely smiling and waving off the most persistent of the drivers around him. He was well past hungry, his body ached, he felt his back locking up, he was tired of the screaming people snapping pictures and banging on their car windows, and he didn't want anyone following him to Meg's apartment – not because of where it was or who she was, but because he didn't want her terrified by a mob stalking her residence for days on end. _'I have gates for a reason. She has what, a tipsy friend who can change the locks?'_

He picked an exit at random, punching Meg's address into his phone. Speeding and driving erratically, he managed to lose the last of the persistent fans, got himself well and truly lost despite the digital help, then turned around and retraced his path. He dropped back onto the highway, and finally – without a cadre of people behind him – made it to Meg's apartment, scraping his car over the speed bumps on the way to the back and truly not giving a fuck. _'I'll blame it on the lawn company. Who cares?' _His back begged him to slow down, but he pushed up the stairs three at a time, gym bag banging into his legs, pounding on her door so hard that the frame rattled in the wall.

* * *

><p>Inside, the last of her coursework done, exams and practicals over, and with every expectation of peace, Meg flinched away from the door, dropping her book on the floor and ducking behind the end of the sofa. The pounding continued, but Randy's voice came with it this time. Shaky with relief, Meg sprinted to the door, threw the chain and deadbolt back, and was rewarded by almost being knocked down by the force with which he came through the door, slamming it behind him. Randy caught Meg's arm, hauling her up to vertical, and pinned her to the wall, her wrists swallowed entirely by one of his hands, the other tilting her face up to his, her body virtually disappearing under his.<p>

"Jesus Christ, Randy, what's wrong? Are you okay? What happened?"

His speed was unnerving; first he was over her, then he was next to her, his voice a growl in her ear that echoed through her as though it bored her hollow while it went. "Show me you trust me."

Meg's face wore confusion and fear in equal parts; her mouth had gone dry, her pupils were pinpoints. _'What is he asking me for?'_ Her voice was horrifyingly dusty, but she managed to eke out a yes. He kissed her so violently she came off the ground and almost didn't know how to respond, couldn't move her hands out from under his, and could feel herself start to black out. Something in him was different, his demeanor had changed entirely, and Meg turned her head away, forcing him to stop, trying to read his eyes.

Satisfied with what she did and didn't find there, she breathed shakily. _'He let me stop him. I can still stop this.' _His skin was still sticky from the gym, and as she wrestled her hands from his grasp and down to his sides, she felt the spasm in his back and winced, but persisted. _'What the fuck happened to him today?' _"Show me what you need."

It was the only invitation he would have accepted. Randy spun her around, face first against the wall by the door, and pawed around to turn off the lightswitches he knew were nearby. Pressing her under him for the second time, he pulled the elastic out of her hair and bent to kiss the side of her neck. Wrapping her hair around his hand and directing her into a sidelong tilt, his kiss became more aggressive, less about skin meeting skin, more about what she'd let him get away with, whether nips could become bites, if bites could draw out gasps or moans, how long her legs would steady her before Randy felt the abrupt drop in weight that told him she'd either given up or given over.

Meg held out longer than he expected, but he rationalized that she was fighting herself and he was fighting her fears. He'd had to work a deeply red mark into the top of her right shoulder before she'd given him even the small pleasure of a gasp, and as soon as she did, he'd reorganized his grasp on her hair and tilted her neck in the other direction, starting all over again on the left, slight adjustments in the amount of pressure he used, but this time, allowing his other hand freedom to roam her body rather than simply brace him against the wall. It took much less time to earn the same gasp, slightly lower in tone, in part from the dance his hand was doing across her body, urging her back against him from the wall, and in part because she was starting to believe that she was allowed the response she was having, even that it might be what Randy wanted.

He pulled her back from the wall, then pushed her away from him into the middle of the room, her breath coming in shaking pants and jags as she slowly turned to face him, trying to regain her balance, trying to understand what would come next, if it might be her, how she was so close to wrecked from just his touch on her shoulders. By the time she'd turned around, his shirt was off and he was almost on top of her, sending her into a frantic backpedal down the hallway.

"Go, Meg. Get in the bedroom." Randy's voice left no room for her to negotiate; she wanted it, she didn't know _how _to want it, and before she knew it she was at her door and he was backing her through it. He caught her by the waist of her lounge pants and pulled her against him before she was fully to their bed, and she shivered. There was always some build-up, some sticky-sweet confection between their sheets before anything real happened, and tonight, there was just his need. Leaning down over her, Meg was almost too afraid to look up, so she watched his fingers trace the inside of the waist of her thin, worn sleepwear. Held in place by a ribbon, he played at the near-ends of it before grabbing handfuls of the fabric and sweeping it down her legs, pushing her backwards onto the bed. Stumbling, Meg managed to disentangle her feet before she sat, much less than graceful, and then he was on top of her.

His kisses had gone hungry again; Meg felt consumed by him. His hands were under her shirt, pushing it up, tangling it in the camisole underneath, and when he gave up on lifting it over her, he simply brushed her hair and necklace out of the way and tore straight down, using her startled jolt upward to sweep the clothing away from under her.

Meg was still, forcing herself to breathe, realizing he'd stopped moving as well. He was staring into her eyes with an intensity he typically reserved for emotions on the other end of the spectrum from this, and then he was all motion again, kneeling over her, working at the waist of his pants, his eyes never moving from hers. Briefly, an image of Randy from the night he'd attacked Joe, all bloodied knuckles and desperate hands, telling her he would never hurt her, flashed across her eyes, and then was gone. Left in its wake was a physical understanding of what he'd meant, what she'd done, a willingness and finally – ability – to let him in and show him, if he had a whim to indulge, an urge to satisfy, then she was hotly ready.

Hurling herself at him, Meg clawed at Randy, working one leg up between his to push his pants down the rest of the way, pull him down on top of her, not caring if her panties met the same fate as her shirt and cami, which they did. She found herself pinned down again for her efforts, but this time, she returned his intensity when she met his eyes.

"Meg...don't..." He stopped again, was warning her, wanting to be sated but not so indulgent that he hurt her or hated himself in the end.

"Show me what you need." _'Because if not now, then not at all. Now, I can. Please, God, I can, I want to, I need to. This needs to happen.'_

Quicksilver couldn't have moved the same, Meg thought, been both on her and in her that fast, and then faster, forceful, and she didn't care what was propelling her to beg him for more, but the word kept coming, took her mind away from a brilliantly sparkling awareness of how far her arms were bent above her head, how taut her ribs were stretched underneath him, and how vastly she had overestimated her readiness for what he needed. As much as she wanted to shut her eyes, she couldn't look away from his, mindful that she was reading as blank as he was in the moment, both of them in some deeper pool of thought.

Whatever had happened, or not happened, the small or large parts she had played in it, hurts past or present, he was driving them out of himself. It wasn't an act of brutality as much as it was a purge within a question – _'Now that I'm back in this space, Meg, what do I do with it? How do I feel it? Do we still self-destruct?'_ She forced herself to meet him stride for stride, knowing it was about _his _knowing. Somehow, it was that thought that brought her arching into him, more becoming now, now becoming please, please becoming yes, again and again, until she felt him give way to her and his body give way to gravity.

She couldn't breathe under him, but she couldn't let him move, either. Any shift in weight or position was torture to her; Randy had held her arms above her head for so long that her collarbone had locked up, and her ribs were stretched beyond measure. The fire between her thighs was equal parts delight and dismay. He tried to tilt to one side, and Meg couldn't help her small moan. Randy's forehead immediately dropped to the bed next to her, and Meg saw his hand clench angrily at the sheets. His movement, however, stopped.

"Meg?"

She forced as much of a breath as she could manage. "Stay, Ran. Don't move. You feel good." _'Is he mad at me? He's gonna strangle that sheet. Did I do so-'_ Meg swallowed hard, flinching. "I mean. Uh. Please? Please stay?"

Randy turned his head slightly, watching as much of the sharp, short rise and fall of her chest as he could see, the long line of her arms above her head, each ridge of her ribcage outlined in the moonlight and lot-lamps. The long scars outlining her body had begun to pale, and looked serpentine and slick against her skin. He trailed his foot along the one that rode her leg, and she shuddered.

"I didn't..." He didn't know where to start. "I mean...it wasn't like..." His hand was back to clenching the sheets. "Meg, if I hurt you, I-"

"Show me what you need."

He looked at her as though she was out of her mind, then slid back over her, letting go of the sheets, rubbing her shoulders, and kissing her.

"Meg, I need you to tell me I didn't-"

"You didn't, Ran. I promise. You needed what you needed." The feeling was starting to come back to her arms, and she chanced moving them down around his back, which immediately took the tension out of her ribs, earning a relieved sigh from her. He lifted his weight off of her and flipped her on top of him, keeping his word not to move anything else, his legs knotted through hers. "Gonna tell me what happened today?" She laid her head on his chest, fingers playing at the underside of his jaw, feeling him ease out and back as their bodies simultaneously relaxed away from and into each other.

He recounted the whole miserable thing, from gravel to highway, Meg silencing him only once so she could go to the kitchen and return with dinner for him, trying hard to walk a comfortably straight line and ignore the fact she hadn't bothered with clothing. After she slid back under the blankets next to him, passing him a fork, Randy eventually reached the point in his story where he was at Meg's door and found himself struggling for words.

"...And you wanted to know I was...here. Yours."

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess so."

Meg feigned hurt, and playfully shoved his arm. "You _guess_. And here I was, ready to tell you the good news."

Randy felt the world become an echo around him, the sound unable to clear from fog so he could hear Meg. _'The good news? Oh. Oh God. Oh Dave. Dave, you fucking told me so. I mean, it's not a bad thing, and it's Meg, and she's amazing, and I'll be here, and she'll be with me, I just don't want her to panic, and maybe she hasn't really thought about it yet because there's so much shit with doctors, unless she just doesn't want to deal with doctors, but then what do you do-'_

"Hey, you in there? I say something wrong?" Meg nudged his arm again. "I said, I really am stuck here."

"What...what do you mean?"

"Christ, say it like it's a bad thing." Meg's face was starting to fall; the furrow in her brows the first sign she was actually hurt by his strangely underwhelming reaction. "I'm stuck here because today was the last day for clinicals and practicums and exams and all that shit. I passed everything, all that's left is the national exam. But..." Meg sighed and leaned away. _'Here it comes, Meg. You knew he was gonna decide it was just sex.'_ She smiled. "You had a shitty day. Just get some sleep. We can talk about it later."

Plate thumping hard on the bedside table, Randy tackled her down into her pillows, trying not to hurt her, but trying to swallow her with his body at the same time. _'She can stay! She really can stay, all she needs is the license, it'll be a better paying job, she won't feel like she's sitting on my bank account, so it's one less fight.'_

"Mine," he breathed between kisses, "Mine, _mine._ Keeping you. Staying here."

Meg wrapped her arms up around his neck, doing her best to keep pace with his affection. "Much better response. What the fuck did you think I said, anyway?"

"Don't ask. I'm a dumbass, sometimes."

"_Sometimes?_" Meg chuckled. "Get some sleep, Ran. We'll deal with our house tomorrow. I'm off the rest of the week; you can wear me out as much as you want. And I can get your groceries."

Lights off, Meg's breathing even and quiet for several minutes, Randy lay awake next to her in the silent bedroom, finger-combing her hair free of snarls before convincing himself she was truly asleep. He whispered her name and waited for a response. Getting none, he continued quietly.

"You trust me, Meggie. You let me...and I didn't scare you. You're not having nightmares. I think, anyway. And you called it 'our' house. You really do...trust me. I think. Can I win this one? Please?" He kissed the back of her neck lightly before allowing himself some sleep, enjoying the idea of having her to himself for several days without interruption.


	26. But Will You Love Me Tomorrow?

THANK YOU to the ever-amazing Nattiebroskette, who walked me through the chapter while I whined and complained through the entire thing. Another giant thank you to all of my loyal readers, though my reviewers seem to have wandered away over time - please do come back! I love hearing your comments!

Think of this as a bridge chapter; Meg's got something major in the works - and I saved the best for last. :) (Also, please don't hate Evil Joe! I'm outlining a story where he does, in fact, get the girl.)

* * *

><p>Joe phoned it in during that night's match, mind reeling the entire time, wondering what had possessed him to drive the scissors through the cupboard door. He could see Dave's face clearly in his mind's eye, terrified and trying to hold the emotion in, rather than risk Joe turning his own further outward. <em>'What the fuck was I doing? I said I could have killed her? I said that to Dave? What the fuck is wrong with me? I do need to talk to her. If she tells me she's really in love with him, really happy for me, then okay. Enough.'<em> Joe shook his head as soon as he cleared the ramp, and hightailed it to the locker rooms, in a rush to get his gym bags and get back to the hotel. _'Maybe all I need is to see my fiancee. Get a shower, get laid, whatever. Get Meg off my mind.'_

It didn't work. He showered, had his fiancee on the floor, on the bed, on the balcony, then immediately took another shower, trying to wash all the memories of roses and Meg off of him. _'The balcony. Stupid. Stupid, stupid. You were practically looking for her, Joe. Good work, you found her.'_ When his fiancee slid into the shower behind him, he practically threw her against the wall, so eager to try again and again to get Meg off of his mind, her feeling off of his body, that if he had to drown in that glue-thick jasmine perfume, rub the finish off the shower tiles, just to do it, he would.

Physically spent, he fell into bed, mind wheeling freely from one balcony to another triage bay, restless and demanding. He could hear Meg's voice in his head, whispering to him, asking him to let her go, asking him if he could find any way to just, please, be happy again.

_'I just need to find her. Talk to her. I have to straighten all this shit out.'_ Joe tried to settle into the bed, nestle into the pillows. but only succeeded in disturbing his fiancee, who elbowed him heavily before rolling away from him. Joe glared. _'Meg used to pull the blankets up over me, bitch.'_

* * *

><p>The next day, it was Meg, rather than Randy, handled the lawn company in the afternoon, leaving Randy to puzzle through constructing a grocery list. When she emerged from his office, nearly an hour later, a list of names and dollar figures in hand, he was shocked that the situation had been handled and repair crews were set up to arrive within the week for the stucco, windows, door, and cars.<p>

"It's not that hard. I might have lied a little bit about my relation to you in order to get them to give up the goods on your accounts and insurance, but it's handled."

"Whatcha mean?"

"Don't be mad, but we _might _be engaged. A fiancee can have a hissy and ask for repairs; a girlfriend isn't formal enough. Sorry?"

Randy laughed, and handed over his grocery list. "Don't be mad, but it's mostly blank. Meg, you know I don't know what I'm doing. I guess...just shop?"

Meg paled. "I can't...just shop. I at least need a budget. I know most of your likes and dislikes, but...that's on-the-road food, not 'Shit I'll sit around at three in the morning and eat' food.' C'mon, you've got to help me out on this."

"There's no budget. Just...food. Nothing that's gonna kill me. Or make me look like I skipped the gym for a year."

Meg's shoulders sagged. "We'll talk about this." From across the room, her phone rang. "Hey, grab that for me while I see if you have any grocery flyers in your junk mail? I took the lock code off my phone. Couldn't remember the fucking thing anyway." Meg began to pick through the heaps of mail on Randy's kitchen counter, making a mental note to help him sort things out later that evening. Spreading out an advertisement, Meg made some additions to the half-assed list he'd handed her, deciding to take things one week at a time and expand from there based on what they did and didn't use. _'I don't even know how much time we're going to be spending here. I can't shop for seven days if we're only here for three of them.'_ She smiled to herself; it was shocking how much time he opted to spend in cramped quarters with her, in their tiny apartment, rather than in his spacious home. _'Either something's missing here, or it reminds him too much of something else. Whatever the reason. Maybe I'll just shop for a week regardless, and we can haul things back and forth?'_

From across the open room, phone in hand, Randy spun to face her.

"Meg! Meg, c'mere. You need to take this, now. It's Sarah."

"What, she need me to cover the desk again? Tell her it's gonna cost her Thai food this time."

"No, there was a break-in. Sarah's at the hospital. We gotta go."

Meg passed him at the door, snatching her phone as she moved, and was waiting at his car without even so much as her coat before he made it outside.

"Sarah? In broad fucking daylight? What happened?"

"I dunno. Kicked my door in, hit me before I could turn to see what the fuck. I was in the kitchen. Didn't have anywhere to run. They're giving me all types of hassle because I had a drink in me." Sarah's voice started to quaver, and Meg's eyes went wide – her friend, always boisterous, never vulnerable – was on the brink of tears. "Meg, please just come get me out of here. Please? They're acting like I did this. I dunno what the guy did, my head hurts, they're not helping me...Meg, please?"

"Girly, just breathe. We're on our way. Randy's driving; I was at his place when you called. You just stay calm; we're gonna be there in just a few minutes. You wanna stay on the phone with me, or you wanna lay down?"

"Stay on the phone?"

"Okay, babe. Just talk to me. Stay awake and talk to me. Make sure you tell a nurse or a doctor you have people coming to get you, okay? So they get you ready to go."

A gurgled noise came from Sarah; Meg immediately knew she wasn't going to put her clothing back on, if it had been kept at all. _'Whatever the reason, and I'm going to hope it's only that it was bloody.'_ "I've got a spare outfit in my work bag, Sarah. It's okay. Don't think too much ahead on things, yeah?"

"But...no..."

"Remember when I called you from the middle of that field-of-fucking-nowhere and you hooked me up with my apartment, no questions asked, just gave me keys and directions and helped me out? I'm gonna help you out, Sarah. No questions. Just some ugly scrubs with butterflies or some shit."

"Is it okay that I had the cops put the cat in your apartment? I...kinda had a screaming fit about him before they put me in the ambulance. I didn't want him to run away. My door doesn't lock now."

Meg smiled. "Girl, you _better_ put that cat in my apartment. Chunk needs _someone's _sofa to pee on." At that, Randy made a face, but sped up and rested his hand on Meg's knee, squeezing it lightly. "Just hang tight, lady. We're almost there. Promise."

* * *

><p>The desk clerk's eyes roamed nervously between Meg and Randy, both angry and intense, the only difference being one of physical size – though at the moment Meg was cutting a far more intimidating swath through the ER purely via use of jargon, verbal maneuvering, and medical skill.<p>

"You _will_ let us back to her bed to see her. Period. I know she doesn't have family here; I also know she's _on this phone with me right now_ and is telling you to let us back. Do I need to call the recipient rights board, hospital legal counsel, and the community liaison in order to do that, or do you think you can just press the button on the wall and let us walk to bed fourteen?"

"Ma'am, there are protocols that we have to -"

"Sarah, if you can get up and walk, just walk out. Take the IV pole with you. We're in the lobby, I'll help you get dressed in the bathroom."

Meg stared down the charge nurse at the front desk, listening to the cacophony of voices grow louder and more concerned as Sarah neared the main doors.

"Gonna press the button yet?" Meg was daring her _not_ to; she knew Sarah had the right to visitors, as well as the right to leave.

Acquiescing, the charge nurse pressed the automatic-opener for the doors, and Meg swept through, Randy close on her heels. She caught Sarah as she clung to her IV pole, and gently eased her back to her bed.

Conspiratorially, Meg whispered to Sarah. "You're lucky you were close to the doors. You weren't gonna make it very far, girl."

"No shit. I can't believe you talked me in to that."

"I probably could have talked you into a cartwheel if it would help you get out of here, even with your ass hanging out of your gown. Didn't anyone help you tie this thing?" The gash on the back of Sarah's head was impressive, but Meg was underwhelmed by the placement of the sutures closing it and planned on asking her friend if she could re-do them herself. _'Probably not on enough pain medication, either, judging by her motion._

Randy, for his part, was doing his best to look anywhere but at Sarah's backside as she staggered along, but also felt the need to hover closely for the sake of her modesty. Once they were back to her bed, Meg eased Sarah into a reclined position on the bed, then dropped down into a nearby chair, rubbing her right leg fiercely.

"Fuck, Meg, I'm sorry. See, I'm fucking up everything. Now you're hurt. Your leg." Sarah's voice finally broke, and the tears started in earnest.

"Oh, stop. Sarah, seriously. My leg is shitty all the time. It's not you. Honest. Don't you dare blame yourself." Meg tried to hop up from the chair to hug her friend, but Randy saw the look on her face. This wasn't 'typical' leg pain, for Meg. Something was wrong.

_'What's going on with her leg? I've got to talk her in to getting that looked at. Just one film. Then we can talk about what to do next.'_ Randy watched Meg's leg dangle limply off the bed while she held Sarah as she sobbed, and shook his head. "Hey, Sarah? You're gonna stay with us tonight, okay? At our house. The cat, too."

Meg looked over the top of Sarah's head, her smile full of gratitude and eyes full of love. _'If I could tell you, right now, what you just did for me, and for her...thank you.'_ "Hey, Sarah? Lemme go to the desk and see if I can get your paperwork, okay? Five minutes. I want to get you out of here. The sooner you're gone, the sooner I can get you home, get you some real medication from my clinic, reset those stitches, and go get Chunk."

"We, Meg. You're not going by yourself." Randy's words went unheard; Meg was already past the curtain and headed toward the desk to talk to the clerk about Sarah's exit paperwork. Randy turned back and sighed. "I'm gonna sound dumb for asking, but...are you okay?"

Sarah had wiped her face off as best she could; everything ached and she was trying hard not to meet his eyes. "I dunno. I was trying to put lunch together and get the damned cat off the counter, and then it was like a bomb went off. The door just blew up."

Randy looked back over his shoulder. Meg was still at the counter, tapping her fingers and waiting for forms and printouts. Sarah continued. "I jumped, I know that much, but then just..._everything_ hurt. My head. I don't know what, after that. I didn't wake up in the kitchen. I was on my bed. The whole apartment was tore up. Everything in my bedroom was on the floor. My phone is gone. My laptop is gone. Photo albums, pictures. One of me and Meg we took fuckin' around in the rental office. My purse was still there, though. My car was still there. And if Meg wasn't with _you_, Meg would have been there."

Randy started to pale. "Sarah, what the fuck? I'm not mad at you, I'm not saying anything, I'm saying I don't get it. What are you...what do you mean?"

"Is she still at the desk? Wave at her, look nice."

Randy poked his head back out into the hallway, trying his best to look put-together. Meg rolled her eyes at him, pointed down at a clipboard, pointed over the desk, waved her hands in the air, then pointed back down at the board. Randy smiled, just as Sarah asked, and made a neutral 'It's okay, we're okay' gesture before ducking back in. "She's still down there, I think we have a minute. Why?"

"Did she tell you Joe is still calling her? All the time? Leaving messages? Dave knew, too; Dave told her Joe was asking about her backstage. Joe was trying to get Dave to tell him where she lived. I was there when Dave talked to her about it." Sarah was whispering, rushing, trying to get it all out at once; suddenly the step-scuff of Meg's footfalls were nearing. She grabbed for Randy's hands. "_Promise me_ you will _not_ be angry with her. She didn't know what to do. She _never_ called him back, she _never_ talked to him. She was ignoring him, trying to make him get the message. If she didn't tell you, it's because there was nothing to tell. _Don't_ say anything to her now. Lemme talk to you more when we get to your place. _Please_. I'm not trying to start shit for you two. I'm trying to figure it out, too. And lemme talk to her."

"Sarah." Randy's tone was eerily flat.

"Randy, _please._ I know I'm asking you for everything right now. She's coming back. I hear her walking. Just...please. Please?" She could feel herself squeezing his hands harder and harder, knowing her voice was moving from desperation to hysteria, not wanting to cause her friend any trouble when she was already causing her so much trouble anyway.

"Ready to go, bestie? I have everything signed. You trust me to take your line out, get you dressed and get us out of here? It's not high-class clothing, but as long as you don't mind sharing socks and undies out of my spares-bag, you're set."

"Lead the way, Meg. You're the only nurse I trust. Just get me the fuck out of here."

_'God, I know that feeling, Sarah,'_ Randy mused, as he stepped between the sets of curtains to wait as Meg pulled Sarah's IV, helped her dress, helped her to the bathroom, and then practically carried her down the hall. Randy moved as though to offer, but Meg gently shook her head and mouthed that they'd talk later. _'Yeah, we will...Sarah's gonna be some of it, but...you needed to tell me what was going on with Joe. I don't understand that. Or why Dave wouldn't tell me. He's my first call.'_

* * *

><p>Once Sarah was safely in the guest bedroom, Meg called the police department, putting her cell phone on speaker, and asked what could be done about getting into the apartment safely. Sarah's apartment, much like Meg's, came fully furnished – the only things that she stood to lose were personal items and clothing. The police promised an escort, but said Sarah had to be there, which she flatly refused to do. After much bickering, identity-confirming, and debate of policy, the police agreed that because Sarah was the property manager, she could give consent to Meg to go in and get specific things because she was a tenant, but not Randy, and the police would have to be present the entire time. Meg agreed and said they'd call when they were ready. Randy threw his hands in the air and stomped off toward the kitchen, with Sarah starting a fresh round of tears. Meg, doing her best to comfort everyone, asked Sarah to wait in bed and rest while she handled Randy.<p>

"Meg, I -"

"Hon, don't worry about him. He's upset because of...it's where I live. It's too close to home, for him. It'll just take some convincing."

"No, Meg, that's not it." She sobbed. "I told-"

"Just rest, Sar." Meg was out the door before Sarah could explain she'd told Randy about Joe's phone calls, and her tears became wild. _'I just completely fucked up. They're gonna fight. This is gonna be all my fault.'_ She tried to get out of the bed, but her head swirled and she couldn't coordinate her movements. Falling half-forward over the edge, she tangled in the sheets and had to back herself up onto the bed, willing herself not to throw up on the pajamas Meg had loaned her, the tears never stopping.

* * *

><p>Meg found Randy hunched over on his sofa, head in his hands, shoulders unbearably tense. She braced herself, but before she could touch him, he snapped at her.<p>

"If you think I'm letting you go back there _by yourself_ when that could have been Joe in there, looking for you, you're out of your fucking mind, Meg."

She stopped, mid-reach, her jaw dropping. "What does _Joe_ have to do with this?" She dropped to her knees next to him on the floor, her hands on his shoulder and knee. "Randy, seriously. Look at me."

"Why the _fuck_ didn't you tell me he was calling you?" He shook her hands off of him. "Why didn't Dave tell me? What were you two trying to pull? Another one of your _plans_?" Randy practically spit the last word at her, the derision in his voice so thick it could almost be touched in the air. "You would have been _with_ Sarah in her apartment if you weren't here bitching about my groceries instead. What the _fuck_ do you think would have happened then, Meg?"

"Randy, I – who said Joe was calling me? What does he even have to do with this?"

"Sarah! Sarah told me! Because she doesn't understand why someone would steal a picture of the two of you together, steal her photo albums, steal her phone with all her numbers and her laptop with all her personal info, but not take, I dunno, her fucking wallet with her money in it? Or take her car?" Randy was standing now, towering over Meg, his voice raining acid and steel down onto her at a level of volume he'd never used with her before. "Maybe someone who, gee, let's think, was interested in finding you? Was pissed you weren't where he expected you to be? Was so pissed he might even have beat the shit out of her, when he couldn't find you? Probably more, Meg, didn't she tell you she woke up on her bed and _not_ in the kitchen?"

Meg recoiled from him, falling back from her knees and sitting down hard, her right leg twisting underneath her and her face reading pure terror before she ducked it behind her arm. The wall of nausea that slammed into her – both from Randy's diatribe and the pain from her leg – propelled her to vertical and then toward the bathroom in the guest room. Her right leg went out from underneath her halfway there, and Randy watched her slam into the hallway wall and fall to the floor. She staggered back to her feet, still doggedly heading to the bathroom, still drowning in her own rancid stomach, and he heard her slam into another wall, this time inside the guest bedroom. Sarah's voice was a distant wail followed immediately by Meg retching.

_'Oh no. Oh, no. What the fuck did I just do?'_ He started to go after her, but didn't know what he would do even if he caught up with her. He sat heavily on the sofa, head in his hands, trying to think.

When it was quieter, several minutes later, Randy went down the hall to the bedroom, but found the door locked. Leaning against it, he could hear them both crying, possibly even arguing, but he couldn't tell over what. Randy debated knocking, but instead sighed and walked back to the den.

"Why can't I listen?" he asked himself? "I did exactly what Sarah asked me not to do. Meg's hurt. She's scared of me. Sarah's probably scared of me. She doesn't even know me, and she tried to trust me, and I wrecked that. I'm good at exactly one thing. Fucking things up." He sat heavily on his couch, staring into space, no idea coming to him, and doubting even Dave would know what to do now. _'I still need to call him. I need to know why he didn't – no, I know why he didn't tell me. Because he knew I'd do what I just did. There. Now I don't need to call him. Solved that nice and easy.'_

* * *

><p>One hour passed, then two, then Randy heard the bedroom door open. Meg crept out, called something back into the room before closing the door behind her, and began to stagger down the hall with her coat over her arm, leaning heavily against the wall. She paused at the end of the hallway, her hands looking for the next solid object to lean on, testing her weight on her right leg.<p>

"Meg, I-"

"I'm waiting for the cop to pick me up, then I'm getting the stuff on Sarah's list and bringing her car over."

"Meg, _please_. We should talk."

A heavy knock sounded from the front door; Meg limped her way over and wished she had an excuse to take a golf umbrella with her to lean on. "Leave Sarah alone. I already locked the door." She walked out with the officer, leaving Randy alone with his thoughts, some of which now included trying to talk to Sarah through the locked bedroom door.

* * *

><p>Sarah's apartment was a disaster. Meg found a suitcase and started throwing clothing and toiletries into it after shaking the glass off, then grabbed Sarah's purse and car keys, and hunted down supplies for the cat. The TV had been slammed to the floor, all of her plates and dishes were broken, and every picture had been pulled from the walls and the glass smashed from their frames. <em>'It's like Jackson went through here,'<em> Meg thought.

"The laptop and phone were taken?" The officer was unnervingly silent, and Meg felt like she had to _make_ him speak or she'd go out of her mind.

"Yes, Ma'am. Did she have any other electronics that she wanted you to get?"

"Her iPod is probably in her purse. I'll let her look for it. Would you mind helping me carry her suitcase? You're not going to want to tangle with her cat."

Meg's apartment was just as she'd left it, with Chunk trotting up to her and purring when she let herself in. He fussed as she loaded him into the cat carrier, but eventually turned circles and settled. The officer scared her out of her skin when he appeared behind her, suitcase in hand.

"Ma'am, you wouldn't have any ideas about what could have happened here, do you?"

"Jesus! No. Uh, no. Sarah and I are really close, but she's never mentioned any problems with anyone. She doesn't bring people home with her, if that's what you mean, and she's not seeing anyone I know about."

"She kept talking about someone named Joe."

"Oh. That's my ex-boyfriend. He's engaged now, and he travels constantly. We used to work for the same company. He doesn't know where I live, so I don't see how he'd be involved, other than that he calls me once in a while. He's never met Sarah and doesn't know anything about her."

"I see." The officer didn't look convinced.

"Sir...she manages an apartment complex. Ex-tenants. Current tenants. Maybe she's got a crazy relative or ex boyfriend I don't know about. I haven't lived here that long; maybe I don't know her as well as I think I do." _'And if she's bitching to Randy behind my back, maybe I really don't.'_ "You'd really have to ask her. She's seen pictures of Joe; maybe she thought he was cute and was saying his name because she got hit in the head." Meg cocked her head. "I'm not trying to be rude or flippant. I saw Sarah at the hospital; she looked like hell. I had a boyfriend like that – how do you think I got these?" Meg pulled the collar of her shirt aside, showing the officer her collarbone. "Anyway," she cleared her throat, "I can drive myself back if you'll just help me with her stuff."

Once everything was situated in the car, Meg waved the officer away and dug around in Sarah's purse for a cigarette. Her hands were shaking, and she had no idea how to drive the car back. She couldn't put any pressure on her right leg without feeling lightheaded. _'You signed up for this, Meg. Figure it out.'_

* * *

><p>Randy moved down the hallway again, this time actually knocking on the door to the guest room. Sarah was so quiet for so long he almost wondered if she'd fallen asleep, and then he heard the lock click in the door. It opened slowly, and Randy backed across the hallway, not wanting to scare her any further than his tirade against Meg probably already had. He waited til the door was open fully before he let himself in the room.<p>

"I fucked up, didn't I?"

"You made it sound like I was talking shit about her. You made it sound like I...I don't know. It all got turned around on me. She went to get my shit so I can leave."

"You're not leaving, Sarah." Randy sighed and looked around the room for something to sit on, but couldn't find anything, so he opted for the foot of the bed. "Look...I was scared. She didn't tell me about Joe starting to call her again, and the last time he said anything about her, it was to talk shit about how he was gonna get her back in bed and be fucking her behind his fiancee's back because she was such a broken, fucked-up mess. I fought with him over it. And then whatever this was with you...Sarah, usually she _is_ there with you. Do you remember what happened?"

Sarah edged toward the top of the bed, holding a pillow between herself and Randy. "No. At least, not what you _implied_ happened, you asshole. But way to lay _that_ guilt trip on her, because it's not like Jackson ever put his dick in her when she didn't want it. The hospital was sure about that _not_ happening. I don't know _why_ he put me in my bed, but he did."

Randy hung his head, looking more and more miserable by the second. "I _really_ fucked up, didn't I?"

"I told you about Joe because _I _was scared. It made sense for a split-second, because I knew he was calling her. But...Randy, think about it. How could he? He doesn't know she lives here. Even if he did, he might know she's in the city, at most. He would check here, with _you_ before he'd look for me, or for her apartment. And even then, why would he hurt me? He would _need_ me, to find her. Hurting me would scare Meg, which doesn't get him anywhere. And on top of that, he travels all over hell's half-acre. Is he even anywhere near here right now? Can you guys just sneak off like that? Probably no, and no – am I right?"

He hated to admit it, but Sarah was making sense. "Then what do you think happened?"

"I think I got hit in the head, I think I'm fucking terrified, I think I wasn't making any sense. Angry ex-tenant. I sent eviction notices to at least a dozen people in the past two months. Or an angry ex. Meg isn't the only one with an asshole in her past. Or, fuck, Randy, I don't know – someone completely random with a sick sense of how to mess with their victim."

"I just fucked up _so_ bad. I was standing over her screaming at her."

"I know. I could hear you. When she fell in here, it looked like...something's wrong with her leg, Randy. Really bad. She couldn't get up. She crawled into the bathroom before she threw up. She couldn't get up after. Just sat there and pretty much wrapped herself around her leg. Even if it's fucked up, you know what she's gonna do? Nothing. She's so scared of hospitals, now..." Sarah trailed off. "She's getting that degree for you, Randy. So she can stay in that tiny-assed clinic and be around here for you. What else can she do? She can't work in a hospital. It's a fucking miracle she showed up for me, and that's all fucked up now, anyway."

"Sarah...I'm sorry."

"It doesn't matter, Randy. Not to me. But to Meg...I don't know. I don't know what you just did."

He edged off the bed and out the door, back to the den, digging shakily through his pants for his phone. Sarah closed the door behind him and locked it, not sure what else she could say. "You're a mess, Randy. Everything she ever did for you, and you can't even _talk_ to her."

* * *

><p>Randy barely made it back to the den before his call was connected.<p>

"Medical an-"

"Dave, I fucked up."

"How is this news, Randy? Did someone catch it on film?"

"_You_ fucked up, too. Why didn't you tell me Joe was calling Meg?"

"Because your relationship isn't my business? If Joe was bothering Meg, she would have told you. Obviously he wasn't doing anything major to her." _'Yet. I'm not disagreeing with you, please note.'_

"Someone broke into Sarah's apartment over lunch. Usually, Meg is there over lunch."

"Well, hate to break it to you, but Joe's been up my ass and around the corner all day. I won't lie, he's been very...focused...on her...but he's also finally getting married to that _thing_ he replaced her with. It's probably just him trying to work her out of his system."

"_Focused?" _Randy's voice was incredulous. "Sarah said he was asking about her backstage. _You_ told Meg about it. That's _way_ past focused. Nobody backstage knows anything about her other than you and me. How many times has he asked you about her?"

"Er...a few."

"Bullshit, Dave, and don't you lie to me!" Randy felt himself wind up to kick the sofa, and thought better of it. "Who are you trying to help, Meg or him?"

"Both, you idiot. I'm trying to get Joe some help, get him refocused – Jesus Christ, Randy, he fucking drove a pair of shears through a cupboard right in front of me, it's not like I don't know he's a little unwell right now. And I warned Meg-"

"He fucking did _what? _And you warned her _what?"_

"Oh. Uh...look, I was trying to figure out how to tell you two about it, and then you called, so-"

"Dave, you know what? I'm going to call you back when she's here. You're going to tell us both. At the same time. No 'two versions' or 'I told him so he can tell you' or whatever the fuck. Tell me one more time that you _know_ Joe had nothing to do with what happened to Sarah."

"He didn't. Couldn't have. There's no way he left the hotel or arena without someone seeing him, and I was with him for the vast majority of the downtime. When I wasn't, my idiot sidekick was. Or, I presume, his fiancee. Plus, we're kinda six states away right now. There is that."

Randy ended the call and stared blanky at the phone. Meg was probably driving. He would wait to call.

* * *

><p>Hours later, Meg pulled into Randy's driveway, sweaty and shaking. She'd been able to make the drive blocks at a time, having to go entirely by surface streets and byways, where she had the ability to pull off onto side streets or into business lots. Long past the point of being able to throw up, Sarah's purse entirely empty of anything resembling a painkiller, Meg had made the drive back on willpower and stubbornness alone, refusing to call Randy for help. <em>'What would the help be, anyway? We can't drive two cars at once.'<em>

He nearly ran out the door when he heard her in the driveway, meeting her at the car, horrified at how pale and wrecked she looked. He pulled the door open and helped her stand, catching her when, for the umpteenth time, her leg went out from under her. Frustrated, Meg tried to push him back, but Randy refused to be budged, even as Sarah passed them to unload the car. Lifting her into his arms, he carried her into their house and directly up to their bedroom, placing her on their bed and kneeling in front of her, holding her hands.

Meg didn't know what to do with herself. She didn't want to touch him, was afraid he would yell again, was still angry, didn't have an escape route, and Sarah was so far downstairs and probably trying to get into the car to leave. _'I didn't tell her to go, she said she wanted to go.'_

What was left of her leg felt like it was being crushed while set on fire, memories of their last night in bed were starting to seep into her mind, his aggression not lost on her, and she was starting to suffocate on her panic.

When he spoke, he was so quiet that Meg reflexively leaned in to hear him. "Meggie, listen. I fucked up. I'm sorry. I talked to Sarah, I shouldn't have yelled at you like that, I just...you _live _there. That could have been you. It doesn't matter that you didn't tell me about Joe; there wasn't anything to tell me." _'Not the whole truth, but we can get to that later. This is more important now.'_

Meg shifted uncomfortably, so Randy tried again. "If he's calling, he's calling. It doesn't mean anything, and I should know that by now. I just...I overreacted. Meg, I'm _sorry_. I talked to Dave, too. There's no way it was Joe who did that to Sarah, I'm not blaming you for anything, I'm not mad at you. I was being an asshole."

Refusing to look at Randy, Meg stared down at her knees. _'I just want to go home. Not here. My home. And not there, either. Just go away. Go away.'_

"Meg, look at me. Don't float off on me. Please? Meg, I'm _sorry_." Randy reached for her face, and she flinched. "Jesus, Meg. Meg, please. I never meant to...if anything ever happened to you, Meg, I'd be done. I would just be done. You told me you were staying here, and last night it felt like...like you trusted me. Now I fucked it up."

Tentatively, Meg reached for Randy's face. "What do you want me to do?"

Randy winced; those were the last words he wanted to hear, but he knew they were nearly programmed into her, a learned response to his behavior, the behavior she'd seen so many times before from Jackson. He leaned up against her, slipping past her hands so they closed behind his neck, greedy for her touch. "No, Meg. _You_ don't do anything. You tell _me_ what to do. I fucked up. I know I did." He closed his arms gently around her, grateful for her allowance.

"I don't know, Ran." She buried her face in the crook of his neck, breathing in his cologne, gently biting at him. "I don't want to be here, because I'm afraid. I don't want to go back there. Make me not afraid." _'You're afraid and yet you're half-trying to get in bed with him. You're so fucked up in the head, Meg. Or, y'know, just tell him. Your pick. You know he can't do anything wrong. Not really.' _She worked her way up his neck, nipped once at his earlobe, sighed deeply against him, and looked into his eyes.

Randy tilted her back, gently, and kissed her forehead. "Then let me take care of you. Get you something comfortable to put on, something for your leg – whatever you tell me, ice, aspirin, I dunno – make sure Sarah stays here because I know you're worried about her, and then let's just...talk. Be in bed. Anything you want."

Meg, relaxing somewhat, returned to the spot she'd started to work at on his shoulder and redoubled her efforts. "I just want to be safe, Ran. Not like earlier. Please?"

_'She shouldn't have to _ask _me for that. God, I fucked up. She didn't even have to come back.' _"Meg...I don't want you to have to ask me for that. You shouldn't have to ask me for that."

Pausing, Meg looked up at him, unsurprised by the hurt she found in his eyes. It was the same hurt she'd found so many times before, recognizable by how threadbare it was, stained and worn, tried on and used by so many people before her. "You know what? We're both gonna fuck up, Randy. It's okay. I still love you."

The hurt was replaced by something else in his eyes, something much harder to read, thicker and slower, and she felt his hand come up under the side of her jaw, his thumb tracing the high ridge of her cheekbone before coming to rest across her lips, silencing her.

"You don't owe me that, Meg."

She brushed his hand to the side, then kissed his palm, closing his fingers around the cool spot her lips had pressed against his skin. "I'm sorry." _'And again, Meg, good job. Too soon. The night of a thousand clusterfucks.'_

Mentally, Randy kicked himself. _'Are. You. Serious. You couldn't pull a "Me too" out of your ass?'_ "No, Meg...I..." He shook his head and dropped it to her shoulder, and Meg could feel the tension building in him. "Meg, remember when I found you in Tampa? I told you I was gonna fuck up all the time? I'm not good at this?"

She nodded, trying to follow his line of thought.

His head never moved from her shoulder. "Okay. Good. I love you, too."


	27. Different Methods, Same Madness

Thank you to ALL of my loyal readers and reviewers: Nattiebroskette, psion53, eyexlinerxwhore, ShieldGirlforever, Mom2AllisonandJames, SweetHigh, Cougar3371, and everyone else who's out there following along. Without you, the story is nothing. I'd love to keep hearing for you, so please – keep 'em coming!

Nattie, especially, who walks me through every 3AM existential crisis I have. One of these days, you're gonna reach through the screen and whap me, and I've earned it. Just lemme put my drink down first...

And, welcome DieselAnnaNights!

* * *

><p>With Joe out in the open, Meg knew she had a phone call to make the next morning. That night, however, she was going to enjoy everything Randy had given her, including the raspy, rattling noise currently echoing through her head as he breathed directly into her ear, curled over her as he was. Well, everything except the headache she felt netting its way around the base of her brain. That, she could do without – but she'd also done it to herself. Rolling her eyes inwardly, she turned toward him, kissed his temple, and worked herself toward sleep.<p>

* * *

><p>True to his word, he'd taken care of her that night. There'd been a protracted pause after Randy said he loved her – Meg hadn't expected to hear it – but there it was, in the air between them, and Meg moved so fast to capture it between their lips that her speed startled them both, her pain be damned. He was more than happy to respond in kind, wave after wave of relief rolling over him, washing away the blood he felt was on his hands. He was reluctant to pull away from her, and it took several false starts and small moans before he was able to coax her into agreeing to break apart.<p>

"Meg...I swear, I'm never going to do that to you again."

"What, kiss me?" She smiled gently, trying to keep him from sinking back into self-flagellation.

He huffed at her, but returned her smile and scooped her up from the edge of the bed, settling her into the middle of it. "No, scare you. Hurt you. Anything stupid I did today." He left the bed only long enough to pull some pillows from a loveseat across the room. "How do I do this?" Randy gestured with the pillows like a sort of confused concierge. "Your leg, I mean."

Meg leaned forward and rolled up her jeans as far as they'd let her before the cuffing became too tight, and grimaced. A vicious black streak was beginning to appear, parallel to her shin, and Randy's concern jumped well past cautious and into terror.

"Don't worry about it, Ran. I'll deal with it. Grab Sarah's stuff so she's not passing out in the driveway, and come back up here?"

He looked tremendously unsure, but acquiesced, knowing that an argument was the last thing he should start. "Okay. Should I bring ice, or something else for you to take? I know, I know – no vicodin."

"Tequila. And ice. And more tequila. And we still didn't get groceries, did we?"

"Don't worry about it. The neighbor kid took care of it, kinda, I think." He jogged from the bedroom, practically tripping over Sarah at the bottom of the stairs, Chunk in her arms, bottle of whiskey under the cat, stacks of pizza on a plate.

"Yes, I'm fine, yes, the cat is staying in the bedroom, I already put a shitton of ice in a bowl in the kitchen, there's another box of pizza by the stove, and I didn't know what tequila you wanted, so you're on your own. Vicodin dissolves in alcohol. See you in the morning."

Randy blinked rapidly, trying to understand if Sarah had just suggested he drug his girlfriend. "Uh...right. Okay. See you in the morning." He bumbled around the living room, locking doors and checking windows, setting the alarm, then headed to the kitchen. He picked up the pizza he hadn't realized had ever been delivered, stacking the bowl of ice on top of it and wedging the tequila into that. He shot a sidelong glance at Meg's purse, perched on the edge of the counter, and idly wondered if she'd kept the vicodin from so long ago. _'Sarah wouldn't have mentioned it for no reason. But, Meg said no, and I'm not starting that.'_ Shaking his head, he went to the bathroom off of the den, rummaging through the medicine cabinet until he came up with various bottles of painkillers, all store-bought, and returned to the kitchen, dropping them onto the ice.

"Here we go. I'm going to get this right." He was whispering to nobody in particular, largely trying to convince himself. Heading up the stairs and gently opening the door after knocking, he found Meg half-asleep on the bed, her leg propped up by two of the pillows. She'd rolled her jeans back down over her shin.

"Meg? Hey, Meggie? C'mon, wake up a little. Food, drink, and Tylenol. Or Motrin. And I'm gonna find you something else to sleep in. Jeans aren't comfortable."

"Just a shirt, Ran. Nothing fancy." Meg tried to stuff down a yawn. "I'll wake up once I eat. I think I'm just worn out. It was hard to drive back." She watched him dig through various drawers, looking at shirts and discarding them as quickly as he found them, leaving a mess in his wake. "Ran...whatever is fine. Really, nothing fancy."

"I know. I'm not looking for fancy, I'm looking for..." He pushed a few more things aside, then shook out a well-worn, extremely wrinkled t-shirt. "This." He held it out to Meg, who recognized it as one of the – if not the – first pieces of merch ever generated for him. "Sentimental value. I want to see you in it. If...if you don't mind." He suddenly felt silly for even asking; she'd told him any shirt would do.

If Meg's smile had been any broader, her face would have cleaved itself in two and back again. "Hand it here, Ran. Of course I don't mind. Help me up?"

He slid her to the side of the bed, mindful of her leg, then eased her to her feet, unsure of whether or not he should let her go. "Meg, I don't want you falling...I know you can do this on your own, but let me help. Please?"

"Help me by getting me to the bathroom, and I'll take it from there. No locked doors. Just give me a minute to clean up and change, and then pizza and shots. You remember that birthday you scared the mess out of me-"

"When you got new boots for me and I faked you out? That was the _best!_" Randy smiled broadly, easing Meg slowly toward the bathroom, resisting the impulse to simply carry her and be done with it. "You were _so_ pissed, but then we both ended up _so_ drunk. Did we play quarters that night?"

"I think quarters turned into 'I dare you to take that shot' and then we ended up walking around on the hotel roof. Didn't we chase pigeons?" Meg leaned into the bathroom counter, and slipped from Randy's arms. "I've got it from here. Just give me a few minutes. And, hey – promise me something?"

"Sure." _'Oh, shit – ask before you agree, Orton, you were just talking about a drinking game.'_

"Promise me you won't flip out about my leg. It's not pretty."

Randy sighed, but nodded, and retreated back to the bed, cracking open the bottle of tequila. "Go ahead, Meg."

Five minutes stretched into ten and then more, and though he could hear her moving around, sink running, towel moving, clothing shifting, he was edgy the entire time. _'Leave her alone, Orton. She's fine. And even if she's not, she just said leave her alone. Try listening to her.'_

* * *

><p>Meg stumbled around the bathroom, trying to maintain her balance on one leg, afraid to put any weight whatsoever on her right. Dealing with her shirt was easy enough, but her pants were proving to be a far more difficult endeavor. Sighing, Meg tried to ease herself down on the edge of the tub without toppling into it. Successful, she used her left foot to pry her jeans down the length of her right leg, shaking the entire time. Any touch, any pressure, and she prayed for death. For a fleeting second, she thought she felt Jackson's fingers brush down the side of her cheek, almost tender, but it was only errant beads of sweat. <em>'You're not starting that shit again, Meg. Nightmares are one thing, but that's too far back.'<em> Pants off, Randy's shirt on, she hefted herself upright and toward the sink one last time, splashing water on her face.

"Okay, Ran. Grab the door for me?" Meg felt far too unsteady on her feet to reach for the doorknob herself, and knew if she fell she'd be dealing with Randy having a panic attack. He must have been on top of the door; it was open in seconds, and his arms were around her – first protectively, then lifting her from the floor – with him trying not to look at her leg, knowing he'd react poorly.

_'Screw it. I'm gonna pick her up to put her in bed.' _He'd reorganized the blankets and dimmed the lights while she was in the bathroom, making space for them both, and placed her back in the middle of the bed, gently laying a quilt over her. "You're gonna have to do the pillows, Meg...I don't know how." Then, he did look – and regretted it. It had to be broken. What might have started as a stress fracture was now a full-fledged problem, and one that had to be looked at soon. "Meg...oh my God...we have to-"

"Put it up on pillows again and throw some ice on it? I know. Mind grabbing a small towel? I forgot to get one." Meg cut him off at the pass, trying to take his mind off of things. _'I can't take half those_ _meds, either. There's some kind of internal bleed going on. It's black. I'll make it worse. I need a narcotic, but...no.'_ She smiled at him when he came back with a bath towel, far too large to be terribly helpful, but he was trying. Stuffing it with ice, Meg wrapped it around her leg and pulled the quilt firmly over her thighs, preparing to freeze. "Tequila, or pizza? Actually..." She leaned over. "I'll start with you." Meg kissed him, gently but firmly, trying to wipe the last of the worry from his mind.

It wasn't working. Randy certainly returned the gesture, even eagerly, but his mind was locked onto her leg and what he could do. When Meg pulled away, she could tell he was still concerned. "Ran, seriously, stop. Eat something, have a drink or three, and relax. It is what it is, and we'll fix it in the morning."

He nudged the tequila over to her, having already had several drinks, and followed with the box of pizza. "Go ahead, Meg." _'And you know I mean eat, drink, and talk.'_

Her shoulders dropped. "I don't know, Ran. Honestly. With this," Meg gestured at her shin, "It's been fucked up since the hospital. I didn't let them near me to work on it, I left too soon, blah blah. I think they put hardware in there, but I have no idea if it was supposed to come out or stay in. And honestly, it doesn't matter. I couldn't handle it now, anyway. Whatever's going on in there, it's staying that way."

_'Don't argue, don't argue...argue later...and Meg, you mean you don't _remember_ letting them near you. And we are _not _going to talk about that.'_ "Okay, Meggie. Okay. I get it, I know how much you hate hospitals. Shit, I guess I better not ever end up in one, huh?"

"I would die." Meg bit into her slice of pizza, chewed thoughtfully, and nodded. "Yeah. I couldn't handle it now. Nurse or no nurse. There's a reason I stick to clinic work."

_'And you fucked up again, Orton.'_ "Meg...shit, don't say that. Please." He pulled her awkwardly over to him, stealing the tequila back, pulling another slice of pizza from the box. "I just...Meggie..."

She elbowed him. "I get it, Randy. You worry. Too much everything, and we said just about everything, tonight, didn't we?" She leaned up to kiss him, ignoring entirely the fact that he was chewing. "Tomorrow, an x-ray. At my clinic. But no promises after that, okay? It all...puts me back there, and I know I don't handle it well."

"Fair enough." _'I was thinking more like orthopedic specialist, but I'll take what I can get.'_ "Remember that time when Dave had to call you from the ER at...oh, shit, what hospital was that? When Ziv had to get her, what was it, elbow? Knee? Checked out after she bombed on Trin? And you were supposed to speak Lithuanian, translate for her, settle her down, and break her out of there?"

Meg laughed outright, pulling the tequila away again. "You should have brought two bottles. And yeah, I don't know _what_ Dave was thinking on that one. She hams up that accent, it's not like she doesn't speak English. She was just super-pissed off about being at the hospital at all. Her elbow was damned well fine, and she knew it. Dave's so paranoid, sometimes. Worries about _everything_. You wouldn't know anything about _that_, huh?" She elbowed at him. "I really hope you brought a second bottle. You're not getting this back. My leg feels _way _better now. Better than vicodin. Best medicine in Mexico."

"I could be persuaded to go get a second or third bottle..." Randy headed for the door. "More ice?"

"Sounds good. Anything you want."

"Meg, be careful what you wish for..." He winked before he left.

* * *

><p>Carefully, she pushed her quilt to the side and slid the pillows out from under her leg once the door closed, chancing her fingers on a walk down the length of her shin. At random intervals, she could feel small knobs deep under her muscle and guessed they were screws. Touching them was agony; she could swear they moved, and left well enough alone. <em>'More tequila. The rest of me is numb. Well, almost the rest of me. If I can get my leg there, then I'm set. Then maybe I can get him set. He's too torn up right now. Too shook.'<em> Meg decided to make use of her time while he was gone, hunting down the remote, moving the pizza box, putting the tequila into the rest of the ice in the bowl, and then throwing herself heavily down into the pile of pillows on the bed, reveling in the cloud of cologne that surrounded her.

"Perfect, Meg," Randy murmured as he nudged the door open, "You look...perfect." His shirt, already smallish on her from repeated washings and dryer shrink, had floated up her thighs. Its trek north continued as she rotated to face him, reaching for the tequila in his hands, and her high-cut black panties slipped briefly into view before she tugged the shirt back down. Seeing Meg more relaxed, leg flat on the bed, he decided he could venture toward playful and swiped the tequila back from her hands.

"Nope." His smile was positively wicked. "Fix your shirt."

She met his mood, dragging the edge of his shirt up over her hip using only the tip of a fingernail. "Hand it over. And don't think you're getting anything til you fix what _you're_ wearing." She reached out again and was rewarded with the tequila she'd wanted, drinking with one hand and pulling the edge of the shirt up to the edge of her bra with the other. "Consider that," she breathed, throat burning from the alcohol, "Incentive."

Track pants gone in one fluid motion, Randy was suddenly over her, equal parts predatory and delicate. "We're even," he purred next to her ear, "Unless you wanna up the ante."

"Oh, no. You're gonna work for it, tonight." Meg slithered her hips under him, half dare and half encouragement. _'Just walk the line, Meg. Figure out where his head is, first.'_

"Meg, I'll work for it any night." Already over her, he leaned down into a kiss, then carefully moved to her side, trying his damnedest not to jostle the bed. "But I don't want to be an asshole about this, either. I'm supposed to be making _you_ feel better."

Tilting toward him, drinking again – _'Drinking too much, Meg, lay off a little'_ – Meg rested her hand on his chest, under his shirt, and swirled circles on his skin with her fingernails. "Whatcha mean, Ran?"

"I know I was...too much, earlier. You said you wanted to feel safe. And I was rough with you last night. Where do I go from that? Meg...I'm no good at this shit, you know that." He rested his head against her shoulder, thinking. "Mistakes are one thing, but you were afraid. I know you were afraid. You hurt yourself because of me, you went there alone because of me, you-"

"Sh'up, Ran." Meg drank, again, annoyed, pulling her hand away. "Really." She thumped the bottle of tequila heavily on the table next to the bed, her shirt twisting up over her bra, and she couldn't decide if she should take it off or leave it on. She turned away, then back, drinking again, before deciding she could face him. "Look. And shit, I _hate_ that I don't know how to do this when I'm sober." Meg leaned over him, wrapping her arms around the back of his neck, the tequila bottle cold between his shoulderblades. "It hasn't dawned on you yet? You can't actually fuck up. You can't do anything wrong. You yelled at me. Okay. You really think that's gonna be the only time we ever argue with each other? It's gonna happen, Ran, and you can't annihilate yourself every time we do something that doesn't sit right with each other. You wanna make me feel better? Then _want_ me. _Want_ to make me feel better. _Let_ me enjoy it. _Let_ me do that for you." She put the tequila back down, knowing it'd be a temporary divorce.

He looked up at her from his position on her shoulder, realizing she'd made some sense, but not feeling quite relieved of his burden, either. "No, it's not gonna be the only time we fight, but-"

"And as for last night," Meg continued, oblivious to him, "Do you know how nice it was to just...get laid? Have someone fuck you who wanted to because they really _wanted_ you, not because you just were there, or they spite-fucked you, or they had a game to play?" She reached for the tequila again, nearly knocking it to the floor before she managed it back to her mouth. "It was _good_. The sex was better than good. I needed it. I needed you, and whatever you needed, I needed to give it to you, not bleed you dry. I've _always _bled you dry, Randy."

"Okay, Meg. That's enough." _'Wherever she's headed with this, it's not good.'_

"No, it's _not _enough, and you can shut up again." She poked at him with the bottom of the bottle. "You can listen, for once. Do you think I feel _good_ about knowing I dragged you across the fucking earth? I stay up sometimes and think about what that was like for you. Sometimes I'm _glad_ I still hurt. I'm _glad_ I look as fucked up as I do, because it makes it _fair._ Shit like tonight makes it _fair_. It levels it out. That I put you through all that bullshit – and I still do – and you keep coming back for more. You never knew how sorry I was, or how sorry I am." Meg drank til it hurt, and then kept going, eyes burning, throat closing, til she felt Randy push the bottom of the bottle down. She shoved his hand away, but held it, and put the bottle back on the table with much less force than she'd used previously.

Sure the tequila wouldn't tilt along with the rest of the world, she began studying his fingers. She knew what they felt like against her skin, pressed on her back, tangled through her hair, between her thighs, but she'd never really looked at them, not carefully. She traced the base of his fingernails, kissed each fingertip, nipping and sucking lightly as she went, each motion a threat and a promise of what she might do later, of what an apology could contain.

"And I told you why I _keep_ coming back, didn't I? I love you." It was Randy's turn to drink, figuring if they were airing personal grievances with alcohol as the excuse of the night, he might as well jump with both feet.

"Did you _ever_ know how much I loved you? In the middle of all of that bullshit with Sam – maybe even before, I don't know – I looked at you and realized I was just...all that shit I did, yeah, a lot of it was about her. And a lot of it was about trying to make myself not look at you like _that_, because I thought I shouldn't. We were friends, and I didn't want to fuck that up. It was fun. It was easy. It was _right._ Nothing I did ever shook you. Meg, if I ever needed someone to bail me out of jail at three in the morning, you were my phone call." He tried to force down the hurt, replace it with something else, make himself sound less angry, but didn't know if he could or it was worth it. He decided if Meg could bathe in tequila so could he, so he drank.

"Meg, I'm not blaming you. I'm not trying to make you feel guilty. That's the opposite of this, but it's coming out wrong. I mean it like...you were the one good thing I had. You kept me together, you actually _cared_ about me. You got Dave to come around, you got other people to come around...it was like pieces came together. I knew I was so bad at this shit...relationships...I was scared to try anything else. Then Joe came along...and I know I gave you shit at first, but I tried to be happy for you. I wanted _you_ to be happy. Then, all that shit with Jackson, and Joe wouldn't even give you a chance to talk." Randy drank heavily, the darkness in Meg's eyes scaring him. "So now when he calls..."

"You...get angry. And I don't make sense to you."

"Yeah. And...yeah." Randy drank again. "Wait. You're not mad at me?"

"You're being honest. How am I gonna be mad at you? Joe's an asshole. I don't want him. When I went back to the hotel after you beat the shit out of him, it was because I didn't want him to die. You fucked him up, Ran. Serious-like. I stayed awake that whole night, thinking about what he said. None of it made sense."

"What'd he say?"

Meg reached for her tequila, twitching and humming as Randy slid a hand under her shirt and along her ribs, tracing her scar. His lips followed the same path his hand took, and she relaxed into his touch. "That he was talking to...shit, I don't remember. Family, I think, which didn't make sense with what you said. He blamed all of it on you, said you wanted to parade me around like Jackson did, you lied to me...probably other shit. It was a while ago. He wanted me to stay, but I didn't."

"To get you-"

"And it didn't work." She drank, hitting the bottom of the fifth, rolling over him and not caring how uselessly her right leg was banging around behind her. "Because I'm here. And I'm faster than you. At drinking, anyway" She wagged the empty bottle at Randy, who rolled his eyes and tightened his grasp around her waist, pinning her on top of him.

"Look," Meg dropped the empty bottle to the floor and dropped her mouth to his neck, as aggressive with him as he was with her the previous night, knowing Sarah couldn't hear them, "All I want is to _convince_ you that you _don't_ have to worry about him." She felt his legs come up against her and his arms become impossibly tighter around her, so she bit harder, pressed deeper, ignored her leg, dug her nails in against any available part of his chest and raked trails over his skin as hard as she could. "_What_ is it going to take from me, Randy? Tell me." Her words were a crush against him, and she had to work to make herself heard.

Words were gone from him as surely as though she'd caught each one in his neck before it had a chance to make it to his mouth. Her shirt had risen between them and her body was an icy plank; he could feel every muscle in her tense as she rolled against him. Her nails dug hot tracks down his chest, her teeth chased from his neck down to the tops of his shoulders. He wanted to pull the rest of the clothing from her, but every time her hands left his chest they pressed his arms, now wandering, to the bed. She wasn't pinning him down by any stretch of the imagination; rather, he was enjoying the feeling of giving up to her. _'Was this what she meant? How it feels when someone wants to fuck you? Really wants you at all?'_ He didn't know where one sensation ended and another began, didn't know if he could breathe, wanted to somehow pull her inside him, wanted to turn her underneath him and start over again with her as the focus. _'Meg, I don't know what to do with this.'_

Meg stopped as suddenly as she'd started, sitting up over him, reaching for his tequila in the bowl of ice and admiring her handiwork on his chest. She was desperate to keep her weight off of her leg, but desperate not to break their rhythm. Surreptitiously, she palmed an ice cube, waiting, while Randy pulled himself to sitting. Meg watched while he re-opened the tequila and started to drink, waiting til he was fully involved in his shot before pressing the ice firmly against the raised marks her fingernails had drawn, savoring the jolt she pulled from him.

"Do you believe me yet?" Cold ice, cold fingers, Meg's tongue like hot satin, more fingernails, "Because you know I can do more to show you. You know I want to do more to show you."

Almost involuntarily, Randy's fingers tangled through her hair, half brushing it from her face, half locking a gentle hold into it and pulling her gently to the left. "I know, Meg. But...what can I show you?"

"First, finish your tequila." Randy glared, but drank and set the bottle to the side. "Now," Meg pulled her shirt off and dropped it gently to the side of the bed, "You can show me what you look like when I get you off. When I convince you. That's all I want. I want to put you back together. You broke, tonight. Start the next bottle."

"Meg, I-" He reached for her hands, which she was glad to give to him.

"I'm not asking." She leaned forward against him where he sat, rolling her wrists in order to pin the backs of his hands against the headboard. "I know you don't _have_ to let me win this one." Meg arched in against him, never letting go of his hands, curling inward and coming to rest next to his ear, her voice becoming a breathy whisper. "But I _want_ you to let me."

The resistance went out of him, not that there was much left after her previous work. There was no pretense to what she did, not at this point – she was steeped in tequila, determined to prove her point, break his will, know his taste, and she pulled his hands down with her as she dropped between his legs, letting him drag his boxers down. He didn't know where to reach first, reveled in discovering the second warm spot on her body even if her lips were cold, didn't know if he should reach at all, and found himself unprepared – as unprepared as she was the night before – for how ready she was, losing himself to her completely, unfamiliar sounds escaping his lips, trying to avoid her, enter her, not knowing what to do, not calm until her hands closed on his hips and she held him still until they were both sated, both empty and full, both in different ways.

"Now," Meg breathed, minutes later, backing her hand across her mouth, "Now do you believe me? That you don't have to worry?" Watching him, Meg knew. He couldn't keep his eyes open, his lips parted, and every time he panted he breathed her name. Where she expected his hands to dig into her shoulders, they floated over her, skimming across her skin feather-light. "I'm _yours_, Randy. I don't want to be anyone else's."

His throat was dry, and his hands were shaking too badly to bother with the tequila, which Meg was eying hungrily herself. Forcing a whisper, Randy tipped her chin up, making sure she was looking at him and nowhere else. "I believe you, Magdalena. I-"

She smiled, licked her lips, and tipped the tequila back before holding it up for him. "I know." She winked, and carefully eased up next to him in his lap. "Shh. I know."

Tequila finished, fears slain for the night, Randy balled himself up around her, burying them both in blankets and kicking off his boxers. Sleep came easily for him, not from the alcohol, but from the pure, relaxed bliss of having his evening turned on its head. He'd meant to be the one comforting her and somehow, she'd brought it all back around to him. _'If that's what it feels like to be wanted – if that's how I made her feel – this is right.'_

* * *

><p>Groggy the next morning, Meg knocked one empty tequila bottle to the floor before Randy reached over her and answered her phone. Immediately, he popped up on an elbow and began yelling at the person on the line. Her leg was on fire again, was making it hard for her to breathe despite being at the opposite end of her body, and somehow her ears were ringing from the pain, not the hangover. She couldn't hear Randy clearly at first, but saw the look he was giving her phone, which changed completely when he saw her – anger to fear – and she reached for him, taking the phone away, forcing her brain to check in.<p>

"Meg...I'm Meg...here...who is this?"

"You wanna explain to me why the fucking cops are calling me and asking about a break-in at your place?" Joe snarled into her ear, his voice shaking her violently into the morning.

"Joe! Joe. Jesus. Yeah, I'm sorry about that." Meg was trying to reach for her leg and untangle from the sheets, and Randy was already back in his pants, trying to lean into her phone, look at her leg, get her to hang up, figure out how to get Sarah to help him get more ice when she was on a different floor of the house and just as hurt as Meg, if not more – and failing on all fronts. Meg pointed to the bed, waving him to sit down, and gestured for him to be quiet. The world rolled around her. "I was gonna call you this morning. Sarah was-"

"I don't give a fuck _who_ was _what_, I want to know why the fucking cops are calling me!" Joe was screaming now, his voice so loud through the phone that Meg held it away from her ear, his voice echoing back over itself.

"Joe, calm down. I can't talk to you if you're screaming at me."

"Talk. You have exactly thirty seconds to make some sense out of this shit or else I make it into a problem."

Meg crooked an eyebrow and pushed Randy's hand down from the phone, shaking her head. "Okay. Whatever _that _means. Someone broke into Sarah's apartment and hit her on the head. She has a _ton_ of stitches. I guess while she was coming around, she said your name. The cops asked me who you were when I went to get her stuff. She only mentioned you because I've talked about you. She probably has a crush or something."

"That doesn't explain shit, Meg, and you know it."

"Joe...I don't know what else you want me to tell you." Meg's stomach was starting to roll; her leg was picking various other body parts to attack, and while it had temporarily given back her sense of hearing, nausea was now becoming an issue. "She's my friend, we've talked about old boyfriends...I don't know. I'm sorry. It's not going to turn into anything. You're how far away, right? You can't be in two places. Nobody's blaming you." Meg pitched forward, clasping her hand over her mouth, and Randy reached for her. Meg mouthed for water, and pointed to the door. Randy nodded, and flew to fetch a glass.

Meanwhile, the line was silent. Joe mulled over her words. In the background, he heard a door click open and then closed. _'But she didn't move.'_ Rage shifted in an instant to sadness. "Meg, babygirl, tell me you're not with him right now."

"I'm at Randy's house. So is Sarah. I wasn't going to stay at my place. Sarah and I live on the same floor. She's only a few doors down, and she couldn't stay at her place. I didn't feel safe at mine. She's here, too. Why?"

"Because! Why are you with him?" His heart broke on every word; Meg could hear it.

"I needed a place to stay last night, Joe. I just said that." _'And more than that, but how is it your business?'_

"You _have_ a fucking place to stay. I'm gonna ask you again – especially when you can't be bothered to call me or see me, and you _know_ I'd have you on the first plane out of there – _why_ are you with _him_?"

"Joe...where do I even start with that question? What do you mean, _why_ am I with him?"

Randy came back to the room just in time to hear Meg's response, Joe's rage a tinny echo across the phone, and slammed the door shut harder than was necessary. Meg startled, but motioned him to the bed and gestured for him to lean in. _'I have nothing to hide. Joe can say what he wants, Randy's smart enough to know it's bullshit.'_ "I'm with him because we're seeing each other. Because I love him." She sipped at the water, squeezing Randy's hand gratefully after she set the glass down.

"You do _not_ love him." Sorrow to disbelief, and back again. "Meg, you would be _safe _here. With me."

"Joe, yes. I do love him. Is there something you need to say?" _'New topic time, Joe. Or we're done.'_

"Meg...did Dave ever tell you to call me?"

_'Cover, cover...'_ "I've just been really busy, Joe." Meg shook her head stridently at Randy and mouthed 'no' – Randy knew Dave hadn't talked to Meg about Joe; that all made sense to him, right along with her cover. If Joe and Dave had to be in close quarters, Meg was going to protect her friend. Randy nodded at Meg.

"Right. Okay. Yeah, he said you had stuff going on. I just...I wanted to talk to you. You've been on my mind. I'm...getting married. Soon. Really soon." Joe's sorrow turned to despair, a drowning, crawling stench.

"Joe, I'm happy for you. It's good you patched things up with her; there was a lot of history between you two."

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess so. I just wanted to talk to you first. To...I dunno, close all the doors."

"I don't follow." _'There are no doors, Joe.' _Meg squeezed Randy's hand, hard. "We've been over."

"To tell you I'm sorry. I still don't think you love Randy – that's just you bullshitting yourself. But...getting married made me want to clear my conscience. Tell you I did you wrong, tell you that I'm always going to care about you, but if you really want to be with that asshole, then I...I need to let you go."

Meg pulled the phone away from her head and looked at it skeptically. "Well...thank you, Joe. I want you to be happy with her. But...first, Randy's not an asshole. And, I need the phone calls to stop."

"Oh for fuck's sake, Meg. You understand that maybe if you _picked up_ the phone, I wouldn't _have_ to call you so much?" The rage replaced whatever else Joe might have been feeling, despair, self-pity, or otherwise.

"Your fiancee wouldn't like it, Joe. You know that. I understand wanting to talk, but it's got to be reasonable. And once you're married, I don't think any amount is going to be reasonable. You understand that."

"Is this because of _him_?" _'I can find more than scissors, Meg. He's not _good _for you.'_

"Honestly?" Meg paused, trying to choose her words carefully, more for Randy's sake than Joe's. "Joe, yes, it _is_ because of Randy. It's because of my relationship. It's because I want to respect _your_ relationship with your wife. It's because there's a difference between calling once in a while to say hi, and what you're doing now."

Joe felt his hand tighten dangerously around his phone. "Fine. Fine, Meg. I get it. Don't call so much, it pisses Randy off."

"That's not what I said. And I'm sorry about the police. You're welcome to call me," Randy nudged her, and Meg held up a singular finger in a gesture to wait, "But any interaction we have is going to respect the fact that we're both in relationships with other people. You're getting married. And regardless of what you think, I love Randy."

"Meg..." Joe wanted to reach through the phone, hold her hands, lean into her hair and breathe rose petals. "I just...I wanted to..."

"You wanted to what, Joe?" Meg pressed a kiss into each of Randy's palms, trying to calm him. He'd begun to bounce his leg on the bed, irritated the call had gone on so long. "Because it doesn't matter. Go to your wife, Joe. Call her, if you can't go. Tell her you love her."

_'I'm supposed to tell _you_ that, Meg, stop pushing me back. Make him leave, Meg. Make him leave so I can make you understand. Why don't you fucking see it? What the fuck is wrong with you?' _"Remember when you said you had to get your shit sorted out, Meg? You should work on that. Why don't _you_ go find Randy and do whatever the fuck it is you do. Drink? Hurt yourself?" _'I want you to feel like I feel. Why do you do this to me?'_

"Are we done here, Joe?" Meg knew what he was aiming for and was trying not to let it get to her, but her leg served up reminder after reminder. "I've made my peace. Congratulations on your marriage. I'm sorry the police bothered you, but I'm sure that's done. I'll clear it up with Sarah. I have to go now." Ending the call, Meg tossed her phone onto the bed and cradled her head in her hands before trying to turn and face Randy. The pain in her leg was making her woozy; even her vision was blurred.

"Did he _have_ to stay on the phone that long, Meg?" Randy had passed irritable, circled pissed off, and landed squarely in the middle of decidedly angry. "I'm so glad I got to hear about how much I don't love you. Did you _want_ me to hear it? Were you trying to make a point?"

"Randy..." Meg's head was spinning. "I _wanted_ you to hear the call. I assumed you'd be able to see through him. How many times did I tell him to stop calling? How many times did I tell him I loved you? When he didn't get the answer he wanted – I hated you, I wanted him, whatever – he got pissed off and went away. Isn't that what we _both_ wanted?" Meg reached blindly for Randy, the room jittering across her field of vision.

"A simple 'Stop calling me, goodbye,' would've worked too." Randy's voice was pure contempt.

_'Meg, what you did last night was stupid. You can't fuck your way into his heart. Bed, yes. Anything else, no. Why do you think things are ever gonna change for you?' _"Oh my God, Randy! Do you _hear_ yourself? Do you only believe I care about you when I'm attached to your dick? I'm sorry I tried to _explain_ why I love you; next time I'll just point to your crotch, yell 'penis,' and jump on like last night! Is that better? I told you, you _do not _have to worry about Joe. I love you. I _love_ you. What else can I do?" Meg slouched, defeated by his jealousy and broken by her body. "This is why sex doesn't work as an I love you," Meg muttered.

_'Orton, fuck you, fuck you, fuck your stupid self. You just did it again. A-gain.'_ "Jesus. Meg...I'm-" His voice clipped short. "Wait. _What_ did you just say?"

"Can you hand me the shirt I had last night? I'm cold."

"Meg...don't. I fucked up, but-" His voice was edgy again, and he snapped the shirt up from the floor.

"You're saying that a lot, lately." She was bitter, and rightly so, but knew she couldn't maintain the mood even while she made a show of snatching the shirt from his hands and huffily slamming it down around her neck.

"Yeah, and now _you're_ saying the only reason you face-planted on my dick is because it was easier than actually _saying_ you loved me."

"How many times have I? I've said it to you with words, I've shown you every time I dragged you out from whatever pile of bullshit or pussy you buried yourself under..." Meg trailed off, knowing she was being hateful. "You finally made me stop running, Randy, and last night...I didn't know what else to do! I'm running out of ways. I thought if I never figured out the right way to tell you...then maybe I could figure out how to show you. I _let _you do everything else, didn't I?" Meg wrapped her arms around herself. "I don't have any more ideas. All I ever did with Jackson – _and_ with Joe – was pray to God they'd eventually believe me. Maybe decide I was good enough for a pass. You think I'm gonna fight that fight again here?"

"You think I'm asking you to?"

Meg threw her hands in the air. Her leg was screaming louder than she was, and she was nearly unhinged with pain. "Ran...I don't know _what _the fuck you're asking me for, anymore. You wanted me to stay, so I stayed. You wanted me here, now I'm here. You wanted to know what was going on with him, I let you listen. I've never _ever _said no to you, has that occurred to you? Other than the _one_ night I didn't open the door, in your hotel, and that was because – get this – I felt _guilty!_ I felt like I fucked up your night, because I heard Joe in your room and I just wanted to stay in the bathroom so I didn't bother you two." Meg reached for the water, saw the glass was empty, and passed it angrily from hand to hand, not realizing she'd finished it so quickly. "I'm not a tree to pee on. I'm _yours_. You want me to get a tattoo about it or something?"

He snorted, and couldn't help his smile. "I'm sorry, Meg. He just...I'm still angry. What he did to you. Unfinished business. And I'll work it out with talent relations so we stay away from each other when I get back. I don't want to work anything with him and get accused backstage of fucking him up on purpose." He looked at her leg. "And I'm worried about you. About that."

"Thank you. Really." Meg leaned over to kiss him, and winced. "And...you win. My leg. I think you're gonna be babysitting me on painkillers later today."

"You'd be a _lot_ easier to babysit if you just lived here. Stayed, like you said. Moved in with me."

"One step at a time, tiger. Make sure you still love me after I'm all doped up and telling you what I _really_ think of you. I've got _all_ kinds of stories, just remember that." She squeezed his hand.

"So...no. You won't." He felt his stomach twist and his face burn, an intense wash of stupidity coming over him.

_'Wait, that was legitimate? The fuck? First you're livid, now you're...whatever this is?' _"I didn't say no, Randy. Calm down." Meg squeezed his hand again. "I..I mean, it's just...you're really asking?" She waited, but he didn't move. "Yeah...you're asking. Can we put the brakes on any more life-altering statements for a minute? This is...a lot for two days. I don't want us to fuck up by doing too much. Are you doing this because we-" _'I'm tired. Can we just stop? Fine, yes, to whatever you want. I'm exhausted. I'll stop.'_

"No, I get it. This is big. I mean, for you, this is like, two suitcases and your books and that mirror. _'And wow, that sounded like such an asshole thing to say. I keep fucking up. I should stop talking.'_ I mean, no more major decisions, we have to get used to each other, make sure this works, I don't want anything to go wrong, this has to be perfe-"

"Ran, shh." Meg pressed a finger to his lips. "I know what you meant. And really, it's okay. I'm saying yes." _'This is all way too fucking fast and it's a bad idea. But, he's right. It's two boxes and a mirror I'm not attached to. When it doesn't work, I can put my shit in Sarah's car and stay with her. I need a place to stay that isn't a hotel, and he's not gonna take no for an answer. And God knows I'm used to that mentality, anyway. I give up.'_

* * *

><p>Joe seethed. "That <em>entire<em> setup is bullshit, Meg, and you _know_ it!" She wasn't on the line anymore, and that fact hadn't prevented him from ranting at his phone nonstop for the past half hour, in between touchdown passes directly into his hotel wall. "What the fuck are you doing? I'm right here! I'm _telling_ you to come here! What is he doing for you that I didn't do for you?" He threw his phone again, putting yet another angular dent into the drywall. "He is _nothing_, Meg. His time in the company is over. I'm on my way up. His back is done, his shoulders are done – I had _one_ issue – one – and you run away from me. It's not like _you're_ such a hot piece of ass yourself. I can do _better_. I _am_ doing better. And she's hotter, thinner, a way better fuck..." Picking his phone up from the floor, Joe slumped down the wall, brushing his hair back from his face, ripping his fingers through the snarled ends. A bead of blood pulsed up from his fingertip as he drew it across the crack he'd caused in the glass screen, a photo of him with Meg still his background of choice on his phone. "Who am I kidding, Meg," he whispered, "Come back. I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. Or who. I don't want this. I don't _want_ this. Why am I getting married? I just want you to come home. You told me about Sarah, you wanted me to find you."

Joe had expected Meg to be at her apartment, not at Randy's house; now that he'd seen the picture of her with that other girl – Sarah – he knew he'd found the right place, the fool he'd worked with had just gone into the wrong unit. _'Figures; I got what I paid for.' _He picked up the photo from the bed and tilted it back and forth in his hands, trying to avoid bleeding on it. He couldn't help but smile back at Meg's face. Sarah's nemesis, the pigeons, had filtered into the rental office with a few of the ballsier ones actually landing on the main desk behind them. The TV was on in the background; Joe didn't recognize the program, but knowing Meg and looking at Sarah, it was something loud. _'Probably music. Fuck, looking at that giant bottle of Jack on the desk – and how much is gone – it could have been porn. Her tastes went _way _downhill. I bought her the expensive shit.'_ And then, there in the foreground, his Meg.

The rental office must have been hot when the photo was taken; Meg was in layered, strappy tanktops that were sliding down her arms, along with ridiculously bright orange shorts. Her hair was wet, either from sweat or a sauna, and was dangling, stringy and loose, out of a ponytail that hadn't decided if it was willing to fall off the top of her head or not. _'Maybe there's a gym there? Nah. Meg never worked out.'_ She was jumping over Sarah's back at a skewed angle, Sarah pitching forward as she snapped the selfie, both of them grinning like fools, looking as drunk as they likely were. The closer Joe looked, the more he convinced himself he saw Meg holding what looked to be the neck of yet another bottle of alcohol, just out of frame. _'Still a drunk. More of a drunk, apparently. Maybe there's something to this whole car accident story you were telling me? I mean, shit, look how fucked up your arm is. Shoulder. Whatever.'_

He traced his finger over the scar along her collarbone in the photo, trying to decide if he could get used to it or not. He waited for his phone to ring; whether or not the idiot from the cleaning service had found Meg, he'd at least found Sarah, and was going to want his money. _'Which you _so_ have not earned, by the way.' _Joe was a smart kind of stupid. When Dave had slipped up and mentioned clinicals, that was all it took for Joe to lose the tenuous grasp he had on reality and go on a hunt. Clinicals meant Meg had stopped somewhere long enough to set up a place to stay, even tried to finish the RN program she'd talked about and he'd only ever half-listened to, and where better to do that than with the one person who seemed to trail her like a bad odor – Orton.

Those scissors, meant more for Randy and Dave than for Meg, were a delicious release for Joe, but not nearly enough. He knew he needed to find Meg, fix the damage that was caused, make her see right, get her away from whatever poison she was being fed by those idiots, feel those cold fingers along his face again, wiping away the tacky, sticky residue from his soon-to-be wife. _'I thought if I just pushed the date up with her, made it official, it would be over. Bitch A, Bitch B, whatever. All interchangeable. I don't want what I'm doing, I want what I'm not getting.'_ He hadn't spent any time thinking about what he'd do once he had Meg; the simple idea that nobody _else_ could win was enough for him. _'And why can't I have both? Family man with his side-thing. Everyone in the business does it. I do it. I'm _going_ to do it, I mean. She's going to be fine with it. When has Meg ever argued with me about anything? I say yes, she says go. Isn't it what she's used to?'_

* * *

><p>His phone rang, unlisted number. <em>'See, Meg? I learned. Always answer unlisted numbers. I even learned how to <em>use _unlisted numbers. You really gave me a lesson in calling cards, didn't you?'_ He knew the gritty voice on the other end would be attached to the 'cleaning professional' Joe had managed to track down, and was demanding the rest of the money that had been promised. Joe sighed, and was temporarily lost in his thoughts before he answered the call.

* * *

><p>It was simple enough to thin the list of apartment complexes in Randy's town; Joe knew Meg didn't have a car, and her misguided sense of pride would prevent her from borrowing Randy's for any significant length of time. <em>'Plus, Meg's had enough big city shit for a minute. No St. Louis. She's gonna be afraid of Tampa when she gets back here.' <em>She'd either need or want some sort of public transit. She'd need something inexpensive, and she had no possessions of her own that Joe knew about. Meg had never mentioned so much as a storage locker, thus anything that didn't offer fully furnished rentals was out. She liked quiet and private, and given how hard she'd worked not to be found, she'd want something where she could disappear easily – and hide Randy with her. Calling Time Centre was a stab in the dark. Joe used a pre-paid card at a gas station phone, shocked he'd found a gas station that still _had _a working pay phone. _'Acting skills always come in handy, don't they? Even in bed? Did you fake it, Meg? For me, or for him? I wanted to make you happy.'_ Concocting a story about wanting to rent for his daughter but be sure she was safe, he asked about the service staff once he had Sarah baited.

Sarah was more than happy to provide the names of the pool company employees, the lawn care team, and the general cleaning staff, assuring Joe that they never entered the apartments, they only handled vestibules, office areas, and hallways. _'Perfect. Main keys are in main offices, and money gets you everything.' _Luck was on Joe's side; several college-age girls rented a suite not long after. Sarah never questioned it.

Joe stockpiled calling cards, all paid for in cash. The same cash fans were only too happy to press into his hands after he signed t-shirts, pictures, bras, whatever was shoved at him – and then he waited. He figured the cleaning company would be his best bet; there was no snow for the lawn company, no reason for the pool company to go to the complex. Working the internet for all it was worth, it wasn't long before he was able to come up with a short list of young, impressionable, financially vulnerable names. Women were out; he needed a man who didn't want to push a mop, and who wouldn't appreciate another man getting dicked over by an ex. _'Public criminal background checks are a brilliant thing. It's amazing what the internet will let you do.' _

Several thousand dollars later, and with the promise of thousands more, Joe told the man he didn't care what he did with the one who _wasn't_ Meg, just give Meg a reason to leave or call, without hurting her. Whatever he found that made Randy look bad and made Joe look good, work that too. Bring photos, phones, laptops, whatever might lend a clue about what was going on in Meg's head, but _don't_ touch her. Sarah, whatever. _'Well, good thing he got confused, I guess. He put 'the other one' in bed and left them both alone. And Meg wasn't there, anyway. Didn't fucking matter, in the end. And at least I got some intel, plus this clown has no idea who the fuck I am. I'm just some angry ex, to him, and Meg isn't anyone special.' _

It was beyond simple to take the main complex keys from Sarah's office once the buffoon was in there to clean; even easier to figure out where Sarah lived from the roster of tenants, then go into the building after-hours, vacuum in tow for looks. Somewhere along the line, the 'hired help' had either mixed up who Joe was after or whose flat was supposed to be broken into, because he'd ended up in Sarah's place and not Meg's, but it had almost worked out anyway. Had Meg been there for lunch, that is. _'Maybe that's what he was planning, a two-for-one deal? Do her, make Meg watch, and then she for-sure would have been the fuck out of there and back with me. Randy couldn't have kept her there, after that. Whenever Meg panics, her first move is to run.'_ A failure all around; Sarah ended up with a headache and Meg ended up with a reason to run closer, not farther_._

* * *

><p>The phone hadn't stopped ringing. Joe shook his head, picked up, and listened as the man rambled on and on about trashing the place, boxing up everything he'd found – which Joe's extended family was happy to pick up for him at various post offices, re box, re-mail, through a dozen hands, til nobody knew who had handled what anymore – but where was his money?<p>

"Did you actually _find_ the girl I wanted?" _Rhetorical questions aren't gonna be this guy's strong quit.'_

"I dunno, man, I found _a_ girl. Wasn't that the deal?"

"No, the deal was a _specific _girl. Which you didn't deliver on."

"I'll go back! I can go back!"

"Don't. You wore gloves, right?" _'Please let this chucklefuck be able to follow simple directions. He's already in the system. I don't need the headache.'_

"Yeah, man. I'm not a fucking idiot."

"Okay. Give me a couple days, I'll call back when the cash is ready. Pickup same place as the first time, okay?"

"Don't fuck me over, or I'll go back just to see if she's there for fun."

Joe hung up, suddenly wondering if he'd come up with such a brilliant idea after all. _'Meg, why are you making this so fucking difficult on me? Can't your little experiment just be over, now? Just come home. You know I love you. I wouldn't do this if I didn't love you. I can just get rid of her and have you, or we can work something out, or...something._ _Why are you still trying to break my heart and be so fucking difficult?'_


	28. Trouble The Streets

My apologies for the delay in posting, and thank you all for the lovely reviews from previous chapters. I'll be back at this at a much improved pace, I promise. Real life got in the way for a bit; I have Nattiebroskette, SweetHigh, eyexlinerxwhore, and a myriad of other authors and readers to thank for getting me back on track.

If you haven't, please do check out Nattie's works - they're deliciously smuttastic (yeah, I made a word up!), and delightfully well-written. She's got a knack for personality. :) Plus, anyone who can put up with me for 2,000+ messages deserves a medal.

As always, I love to hear from you. Reviews, critique, anything - I'm game for it.

Onward!

* * *

><p>Driving to the clinic was an exercise in the art of the pot-hole dodge. Randy hadn't ever realized the roads were so ruined, and while Meg swore up and down it didn't bother her, every time he levied a surreptitious glance at the rear view mirror, she looked miserable. She was sitting lengthwise across the back of his SUV, tilted deeply into the back of the seat, head lolling back and forth occasionally, seemingly lost in her own thoughts.<p>

_'Whatcha up to in there, Meggie? Doesn't look like anything good. Just hold on, kiddo. We're almost there, and then we can figure out what's going on.' _Randy drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel, half out of frustration and half out of wishing he'd thought to put the radio on since Meg wasn't much for conversation.

Meg, for her part, was lost in Louisiana, her thoughts firing down a high-speed four-lane and landing on swampland in a soggy highway median. Every time she jostled in the seat, she felt her nails dig into the leather, waiting for the slight bump to turn into an all-out launch across the pavement and end her. _'You did it to yourself. Your leg, telling him you love him – and what the fuck was that, Meg, you _love _him? I mean, you do, but now he's overreacting with this moving-in-thing – and once he sees how bad your leg is, it's all going to blow up. You know it is.' _Pulling into the parking lot, Randy started to reach for the door, but Meg's hand shot between his seat and the wall of the car, catching his wrist before he could open anything.

"I'll get it from here, Ran. You'll get mobbed."

"Doesn't matter. I don't want you to go in alone. You even said you're not going to handle it well, Meg." His hand closed around hers, pressing her down against the armrest of the door, away from the driver's seat. "Please? Meg...I feel like I did this."

"Oh, please. Who got in the car that night, you or me?"

"You wait there. I'll get the door." _'I'm not talking about the car. I'm talking about scaring you into spending that night with Joe, the sex, falling in the hallway, going to Sarah's place alone, the driving...'_

"_You_ wait there. I'll call and have them open the back; you can park around there and we can go hide. Deal?"

Randy kept telling himself to think about the similarity between the word patient, in Meg's context, and patience, which got him through the ordeal. Meg had warned him she'd have to be slipped in between paying clients, and the wait to have her films read would be long, if it even happened that day. _'I can have them make copies. Or a disc. I want my doctor to look at what's going on. Your clinic can ballpark it; I want a specialist to tell me what's in there. You need to walk, Meg. I need you to walk.'_

He let her limp inside from the car, knowing pride would cause her to turn on him if he tried to intervene by helping her into the building, then sat in the break room with her, smiling as seemingly every nurse, doctor, and technician in the clinic stopped by to greet her and check on her, entirely oblivious to his presence. _'This is getting mobbed, Meg. See how much these people need you?' _

* * *

><p>Randy, despite her protests and thoroughly amused by the coos and giggles he got from the female staff, carried Meg to the radiology lab, setting her gently on the cold metal table and waiting for her to let go before he backed away. Her convulsive shiver wasn't lost on him, and he was afraid to leave her alone in the room. Meg knew the technician who helped her lay back under the projector, so her flinching under each touch and maneuver was less of a spasm and more of a twitch. The technician took film after film, lateral, supine, anything she could get Meg to hold still for, and much of it at Randy's request from behind the leaded divider. <em>'I don't even know what I'm asking for. I just want every angle. Anything I can send to my ortho. At least this place let her stay in her sweats. Maybe not the easiest to work around, but...they know.'<em> Watching each image scan across the oversized computer screen, Randy didn't know if he wanted to cover his mouth with his hands, press his fingers against the screen, or go back into the main radiology room, lift Meg from the table, and hold her until her leg magically healed.

The films were brutal. The technician murmured things Randy didn't understand – comminuted, stress risers, non-union, impaction – but the pictures grabbed hold of his stomach and wrenched it lsideways. The bone around each of the remaining screws and pins had shattered; some of it looked webbed, some of it was full-fledged fracturing. Meg was walking on what amounted to a column of crushed pebbles with the occasional twisting metal spoke placed through it.

"Crumbs can't heal to crumbs." The technician was still murmuring, but the comment caught Randy's attention.

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"Her leg. There's just nothing there. They take the screws out, it's all still pieces. There's nothing to plate to – usually, you see stress risers-" She gestured to the small protrusions that flanked the heads of some of the screws, "Where you have plates, because the bone's been shaved down to accommodate the thickness of the metal. Here, the screws just wore into her bone. Then wore loose. Then, impacts from walking, falling, driving, whatever...it all just crushed and crushed." She clucked her tongue. "Four screws, two pins, and one fucking mess. Did she even _have_ any post-op care? Therapy?" The tech arched an eyebrow at Randy.

"Uh...no. But she wasn't staying here. With me, I mean. And she didn't have insurance. It was...complicated."

"Yeah, no kidding. She's real guarded, but she's a sweetheart. Doesn't talk about _that_ much," the technician gestured at the films, "But talks about you all the time." The technician winked at him. "You've got a real hold on her. Meg's a wild one, just from the little she's said, but she tells us you've got her in a good place. She's happy. Always a smile on her, about you."

"Now I just have to keep her in a good place. Can I get these on disc? Don't tell her, though. Uh, please? I have an ortho who works on my shoulders, did my collarbone...I kinda want him to look."

"Yeah, as long as you don't tell her I did it. I like her; I want to see her get better, you know?"

Randy offered a vanishing smile, as did the technician, but his eyes were locked on the screen, the oddly-angled screws and pins a glowing whiteness against the muted grey of Meg's bone and the black of the film itself.

* * *

><p>Outside, Meg begged her way into the front seat, pill bottles from the clinic pharmacy in hand, saying she didn't want to be by herself. <em>'I don't want to sit back there with Jackson. Fucking mind. I need to take the fucking NCLEX. I can schedule it by phone. Right now, even. As soon as I'm licensed, I'm busy. I just have to keep my mind elsewhere, then I can talk to Dave, then I can get back to work.'<em> Idly passing her phone from hand to hand, she startled when Randy's hand landed on her knee. Meg hadn't realized they weren't driving yet. He'd started the SUV, letting the interior warm for her, but was looking at her curiously, as though he was waiting for an answer to a question.

"I'm sorry, Ran. I spaced out. Did you say something?"

"You worry me when you space out. Tell me what's going on in there." He brushed her hair back from the side of her face, absentmindedly tracing his fingers over the top of her collarbone once he'd passed through the ends of her hair. "You look like you saw a ghost."

Meg's face fell. _'You have no idea.'_ "No, it's just...it's like I'm never gonna be done with this, you know?" She rummaged in her bag for a bottle of water, wincing at how cold it had become from sitting out in their vehicle. She struggled with the lid to the pill bottle, tapped two vicodin into her hand, and paused before tossing them into her mouth, chasing them quickly with the water. "I don't want to think...talk...about it." She shrugged. "Please?"

"I...wow. Okay." His eyes hadn't left her hands and the bottle of pills. _'She said she'd never take that shit again. Not after the hospital. What the fuck is going on? She hurts that bad, or something else?'_ "Let's get you home, Meggie. I'll cook. We can do dinner in, and then-"

"I love you, but you're _not_ making dinner. I've got it." Meg smiled, and squeezed his hand. "Two vicodin isn't going to put me on my ass. Don't think I didn't see the look you just gave me." _'Stop fucking worrying. You're gonna make me feel worse than I already do.' _She turned to face him, unbuckling her seatbelt as she moved. "This reminds me of Blaine. It's grey, it's cold, and I feel like I'm finally home."

"We're okay then, Meg?" _'Stranger and stranger...what are you trying to tell me?'_

"We were always okay." Meg leaned up and offered a gentle kiss near his lips, lingering over his mouth briefly. "But you're gonna get yourself in trouble if you don't get me home. The last thing you need is a charge for public indecency." She leaned slightly further in, kissing him into silence. "C'mon, Ran. Drive. I'll let you cook if you let me sit around in a t-shirt, drink wine, and give you direction from the kitchen counter."

"Deal. Sorta. Drinking?" He pointed to her pills. "Is that a good idea?"

Meg slowly pulled away from Randy's lap, her body nearly a malevolent ooze toward her seat where she fiddled with the seatbelt until it latched. "You're right. Drive, please." _'Don't worry, Randy, I can drink when you're not looking. I didn't realize moving in meant I got a boyfriend and a sobriety coach.'_

_'The fastest way to fuck up, Orton: tell her what to do. This doesn't have to be negotiable, but you don't have to be a condescending asshole, either.'_ "Meg...I'm not trying to tell you anything. It's just that you really didn't want to take the pills before, so," He shifted into drive and began a slow roll out of the parking lot, "I don't know what to do. I want you to feel better, and it's not like you working with my back. I can't just put hands on your leg and fix it" _'Plus...how much pain are you in, Meg? You said you'd _never_ take those. How bad is it that you're not telling me?'_

"I'll be fine. I promise." Meg felt a burn run through her veins; a heady mix of adrenaline and lust, starting to feel high from her pills and having zero interest in controlling the rush of sensations. "I'm trying to be a good patient. Follow directions. Just...take me home, okay?" Meg started to fiddle with her phone again, trying to register for her NCLEX.

* * *

><p>Sarah surprised them both; Thai food had been set up on the dining room table. "Shit...Ran, I'm sorry. I forgot she was here. Quick dinner, and then we can...go upstairs?" Meg was floating on the high from her pills, her gait was nearly normal, and Randy was uneasy about the whole setup. Not only concerned that she was overworking her leg, he also felt he had a decent enough understanding of Sarah to know that she'd couch bad news in good food. <em>'Either she was expecting a trainwreck when we got back from the clinic, or something's up with her. This doesn't feel right.'<em>

"Meg! Meggie. I got you guys dinner...Thai is okay, right?" Sarah didn't just breeze in from the kitchen; she fairly flew across the room and toward them in the doorway. "Are _you_ okay? The clinic was okay? Your leg is...what's going on with that? You look like you're walking normal." Her tone was incredulous. _'Shit, and now I'm going to wreck whatever good news she got.'_

"Uh...actually...Randy, what _did_ they say?" Meg sounded as though it'd just occurred to her that she hadn't asked anyone to read her films. _'Not like it takes a rocket scientist to know it's bad.'_

"Nobody said anything, Meg. Just that I could take you home. I guess we have to call back?"

"Doesn't matter, I feel better. Hey, Sarah – don't tell Randy, but he was right all along and I probably should have been taking the pills the whole time." She offered an exaggerated wink, and laughed.

Randy groaned, but began spooning pad thai onto his plate. "So...what's all this about, Sarah? Just feeling generous?" _'Whatever's going on, let's get it out of the way.'_

Sarah paused, taking a deep breath. "Well...uh...no. Sorta? I don't know. I went back to my apartment today." She turned to face Meg. "Girly...you did everything for me, so I feel like an asshole for this...but...I can't go back there."

"Well no shit, nobody expects you to go back there, Sarah." Meg looked confused, and Sarah put her hands up to silence her.

"No...I turned in my keys, and I'm gonna move to a different complex. The parent company owns a few properties around here, and I'm just...I can't stay there. I don't know what happened, I don't know what didn't happen...I mean, not _that_, I know that didn't happen. But I can't be there. And I don't wanna just ditch on you like that, but...you have to understand, Meg. Right?"

Meg knew all too well what it was like to not be able to stay – or say – where you were touched; the skin-crawling anxiety, the terror that it'd all happen again, the complete lack of understanding why, and she understood Sarah had to leave. At the same time, she wanted to lunge forward, shake Sarah, tell her she would be fine, that she couldn't just leave after the disaster she'd caused with Randy, that somehow, something more was owed, that their friendship was worth more. Meg's fear to lose the first real friend she'd had outside the business was almost overwhelming, and she felt her smile grow taut across her face.

"Of course I understand, Sarah. Besides, it's not like you're _really_ leaving; you're just gonna...what...be across town? We're still going to be-" _'Please, keep pointing out what _didn't _happen to you and what _did _happen to me. I love you, Sarah, but sometimes you should drink more. Or less.'_

"Yes! Yes. Now shut the fuck up before you make me cry. Eat something. And I let you out of your lease, too."

"Oh? Uh...well, okay. That works out, actually. Randy wants me to move in, and I said yes." Meg was somehow saccharine and flat, doing her best to be accidentally unnerving.

"Oh! Oh. You...uh, you didn't say anything."

"Yeah. It was...spontaneous." Meg's voice lacked enthusiasm, and Randy cringed.

_'And they're both talking about me like I'm not here...and talking at each other like they're strangers. Tonight isn't gonna be fun.'_ "Hey, Meggie? Pass me a fork? And, do we have wine?" Randy tried to keep his tone light, jar her out of her snippy headspace, and hopefully get her to relax by relenting on the alcohol embargo.

"Here. Fork. And I don't know." Meg turned abruptly from the table, leaving her plate where it was, treading heavily toward the stairs that lead up to her bedroom with Randy, clutching the railing with both hands as she hauled herself up to the room, sweating and shaking with the effort of keeping her weight off her right leg.

"Well." Sarah turned to face Randy. "That went like shit." She rubbed at her face, her eyes stinging. "All I do is fuck things up, I swear to God."

For a split second, Randy felt awkward, but the look on Sarah's face shook him, and he felt nothing but sympathy toward the woman. Her face was bruised, but her mind was worse off. _'They need to not do this to each other. Not right now, anyway.' _"That's my line. And no...she's in a weird place, right now. The clinic didn't help, because she didn't get any answers. I saw the films; her leg is wrecked. I don't know what she's going to do about it. She doesn't _want_ to do anything about it, I know that much."

"And now I dumped on her with the apartment thing."

"You're welcome to stay here as long as you need to. You're important to her, Sarah. She didn't have anyone when she came out here – and no, before you go there, I don't count. I wasn't here when she got here. We were a disaster, when she got here. You're like her sister. She's scared that you got hurt, she's scared for herself, and you and I _both_ know she falls to fuck when she doesn't have control."

Sarah hummed, a low tone, relatively neutral and agreeable, and Randy thought he'd done what he could. _'Next stop, working Meg out. Whatever the fuck is up with her.'_ "You gonna be okay? Go eat, Sarah. Get some rest. She'll come around by tomorrow morning. I'm gonna take her a plate and talk to her."

"Look at you," Sarah sniffled, "Acting like a fucking husband, or some shit." She smiled weakly. "Any chance I can-"

"The liquor cabinet is yours." He lifted his and Meg's plates from the table and followed her up the stairs, pausing only long enough to snag a bottle of wine from the kitchen counter. "Not a snowball's chance in Hell that this goes with Thai food. Oh, fuck it." He plodded up the stairs, following Meg.

* * *

><p>In the bedroom, Meg was struggling out of her pants, desperate to get out of anything that had the clinic's scent on it and into one of Randy's well-worn shirts. <em>'And like a dumbass, I'm starving and had to make a show out of leaving my food downstairs.' <em>With steadier hands thanks to the medication, Meg re-opened the bottle of vicodin, shook out two more, shrugged, and dry swallowed them

"More, already?" Randy's voice was both startled and startling; Meg had no idea he was in the doorway. "You really _are_ hurting, aren't you?"

"No shit, Sherlock. Give it here." She gestured at her plate. "Actually, fuck it, just give the wine here." Randy cringed, but passed the wine and corkscrew to her, watching her with no small amount of amazement as she drank directly from the bottle.

"She's not doing it to hurt y-"

"I registered for my nationals. I'm not going to do anything about my leg. I'm going to have dinner with you, probably pass out in bed, and worry about tomorrow when it happens. What's funny is, since everyone's leaving, I won't have anyone actually _around_ for this magical _tomorrow, _when it happens. Dave hasn't called me in forever, I don't want to hear from Joe, Sarah's gonna be busy doing whatever she's doing-"

Randy settled in next to her on the bed, passing a plate to her and stealing the wine away, drinking greedily. _'Two can play the drinking game.'_ "So now would be a bad time to talk about when I have to go back on the road?" He'd gotten a few emails while he waited behind the lead divider at the clinic; the company was pushing for him to come back sooner rather than later. Dave had stretched Randy's injured status as far as it reasonably could go and without a new reason to stay out, he'd have to go back in.

"You really want me to lose my shit tonight, don't you?"

Randy pulled Meg close, and then closer, trying to bury her in his arms, against his chest, anything that might protect her from herself. "No, Meggie. I just..." He squeezed her, hard, and she murmured against his chest. "I don't know. I just want everything out in the open. No surprises."

* * *

><p><em>'Sam, were you planning on actually coming here to talk to me about this? Why am I the one calling you? A fucking letter? A courier with a letter? I mean, what, you were thinking, "Surprise, I'm serving you with papers?" It's low even for you.'<em>

_Meg was breezing past the locker rooms, paying little to no attention until she heard Randy's voice, gaining in volume and momentum. She shifted her armload of paperwork and bottle of diet Dr. Pepper from her right hand to her left, and began testing doorknobs, trying to figure out where he was._

_'You're a fucking nightmare, you know that? What happened to you? You really couldn't take five minutes out of a goddamned spa day, or shopping, or whatever, to come down here and actually tell me in person that this is what you want?'_

_Meg found the room; the door was vibrating in the frame each time Randy spoke, and a gaggle of people were starting to mill closer and closer, part ear-hustle and part sideshow. Knowing it wouldn't end well if he walked out into a crowd, she knocked firmly on the door._

_'You know what – wait, Sam – go the fuck away! I'm on the phone!'_

_'Ran, open up. Just for a second.' Meg tried to keep her voice calm; hearing Sam's name come up repeatedly was always good to get a rise out of her. Behind her, the crowd began to thin as quickly as it gathered, common sense seeming to have kicked in for some of the spectators._

_'It's not a good time, Meg! No, Sam, I'm not fucking her. She probably needs me to – oh, shut the fuck up, Sam. Really. That's a fucking joke. I know what I am, but I'm not fucking my friend. Call her a whore again, I fucking dare you.'_

_Meg winced, but knocked again. 'Randy. Just for a second. I know you're on the phone. Please.'_

_The door came flying open, and Meg felt wisps of her hair pull forward in the vacuum it created. Unprepared for Randy to grab her by the arm and haul her forward into the room, she nearly fell over. Trying to keep her balance, she dropped all of her paperwork and bottle of pop, planting her hands loudly against the lockers behind her as she high-stepped over the bench that was, by her estimation, far too close to the door._

_'Yes, dear, I punched a locker. My horrible temper. Sue me.' Randy's voice was bleeding sarcasm even as he covered for Meg's presence. 'Actually, don't sue me, just fucking divorce me!' From sarcasm to screaming, Meg was watching him unhinge in front of her. Slowly, she held her hands up and crouched to the ground, starting to pick up her paperwork and fishing in her pants pockets for a pen, writing out 'People are listening' on the back of an old itinerary. Pressing her finger over her lips in a gesture to keep his voice down and then pointing outside the door, she passed him the paper and set about cleaning up the mess on the floor, gingerly setting the now-foaming bottle of pop on the bench. Randy took one look at her writing, rolled his eyes, flung his head back, and leveled a solid punch at the lockers._

_'Yeah, and I punched a locker again. So fucking what?' He paced, agitated and boiling over, passing the phone between his hands; whichever hand wasn't occupied with the phone occupied itself by pulling at his sleeves, the ties to his sweats, the zipper of his hoodie – anything to keep moving. 'Sam, you just – no, _you_ listen – what the fuck do you even want me to do, just sign everything and send it back?' He paused, his back to Meg, and she could see him nearly start to vibrate. 'Of _course_ you do! Why wouldn't you? Jesus fucking Christ, Sam, I'm not that fucking stupid! Keep your paperwork, stop sending me your little message bitches, and wait for my lawyer to call. I don't want to hear from you. Period.' He spun on his heels and whipped the phone toward the lockers, covering Meg in a shower of plastic debris as it exploded mere inches over her head. She'd never moved from her crouch on the floor, paperwork now in hand._

_'Shit! Shit! Meg! I'm sorry. What the fuck, Orton?' He threw his hands in the air. 'Did I hit you?' He reached toward her, but she caught his hand mid-grab, trying to pull him down to the bench and also check his knuckles._

_'I'm fine, but you might have a hard time cashing in the warranty once you tell your cell company half your phone just fell down my pants.' Meg slowly stood, stepping over the bench and shaking out her hoodie and pants, a small trove of plastic fragments scattering across the floor as she moved. 'Lemme see your hands.' Randy pulled a face, but was cooperative and let her work the tension from his hands. He hadn't realized how hard he was gripping his phone, or how hard he'd punched the locker, until she was working her icebox fingers across his. 'I can take you off for tonight if you want.'_

_'No, I can still go. I'm fine.'_

_'I'm not talking about your hands, Ran. Whatever your...wife...just did. If you want time, I can get that for you.'_

_Slowly, Randy reached for her bottle of pop, tilting the dark amber liquid back and forth in the bottle and watching the foam and bubbles mix back in. 'She's being...her usual. It's real this time, though. She sent me papers. Who the fuck does that? Just _sends_ papers, doesn't even have the balls to show up and talk?' He flipped the bottle end-for-end, faster now, and continued talking as Meg worked around his motions, trying to loosen the tension from his arms, stepping behind him to start work on his shoulders. 'She can be such a bitch. And I love her. And she's leaving me.'_

_'Leaving?' Meg paused mid-compression. 'Randy...it's Sam. No matter how bad it is, I don't think she's gonna leave you. You two are-'_

_'She fucking sent papers, Meg. She didn't even come here to give them with me, just sent over some law-firm asshole who expected me to sign everything without even reading. He tried giving me some speech about needing to take care of her.'_

_Meg snorted. 'Bet you shut that shit down quick.' She went back to his shoulders, pulling his hoodie down so she was only fighting his tension and t-shirt, instead of the extra layer of fabric._

_'You shoulda seen the guy run.' A dry note of amusement had crept back into Randy's voice, and Meg could feel him calming under her touch._

_Meg slid an arm forward around the front of Randy's shoulders, resting her chin on top of his head and surrounding him in a gentle embrace. 'Well...' She paused, considering her words. 'Where do you go from here?'_

_'Out to the ring. Then a signing. Then maybe you can stop by with tequila, because if I go out tonight I'm gonna get in trouble.'_

_Meg shrugged. 'Maybe trouble is what you need right now. Work it out of your system a little.'_

_'I can get into plenty of trouble with you.'_

_'Oh, no. Nope. My job is to keep you out of trouble.'_

_'Meg, you just told me to go out and get-'_

_'I meant with me. No trouble with me. Shenanigans, maybe. Occasional hijinks. But no trouble.'_

_Randy chuckled, and cracked open Meg's bottle of soda, shocked at the speed with which she let go of his shoulders and dropped to the floor behind him. A fraction of a second later, Randy knew why – the contents of the bottle exploded outward, coating him in a syrupy mess – not only had she dropped it, but he'd been slow-shaking it through most of their conversation. Slowly, he put the bottle down next to him on the bench, and started to turn to face Meg, who was doing her best to choke down the laughter that was staining her face every imaginable shade of red._

_'Oh, fuck no. Nope. You c'mere. It's your bottle of diet-death-cola, you're cleaning this up.'_

_Meg tried to backpedal, but her shoes slipped on the wet floor and she landed solidly on her ass, the laughter spilling from her and becoming a hysterical protest as Randy upended the remainder of the bottle over her head, earning laughter of his own._

_'You are such a dick! I don't have anything else to wear, dipshit!' Meg sputtered, but was far from angry._

_'That's 'Sir' dipshit, to you.' Randy offered a hand to Meg, who grabbed on and tried to pull him down into a soda-puddle on the floor. 'Oh, come on. Like you're gonna get me to move?'_

_Meg splashed the spilled pop upwards, catching him on the neck. 'You win. By default stupidity, you win.' She smiled and disappeared to the back of the locker room, taking her shirt off as she moved. 'You think this'll be dry by go-time if I rinse it out now?'_

_'No clue.' Randy materialized around the corner of the sink area and backed out just as quickly, not realizing she'd taken her shirt off. 'Meg, shit! Warn me next time.'_

_'Sorry. We can't all look like a Diva.' She rolled her eyes and continued to rinse her shirt out._

_'They're no competition, Meg,' Randy mumbled to himself, then raised his voice over the sink, hoping his volume carried around the corner. 'Can you come find me after the show? I really do...want company...tonight. Just to hang out. Grab a movie, drink, whatever. I don't want to...' He trailed off, unsure of how to admit he didn't want to be in his own head, dwelling on Sam and her legalese bullshit._

_'How about you come find me? I stay in triage; you wander all over the fucking building. If I'm not in triage, you can assume I'm out buying a new shirt.' Meg materialized from around the corner, her shirt damp and clinging to her. 'This feels so gross, thank you.' She shivered and wrinkled her nose. 'Plus, you don't have a phone anymore. It's gonna be kinda hard for me to track you down. If you don't run in to me, you can always have Dave call me.'_

_Randy caught a few words; something about after the show and triage. His mind wandered to the contours of her body, the way her shirt clung to her, and the involuntary full-body spasm that wracked her when she shivered._

_'I'll find you, Meg. Don't worry about it.'_

* * *

><p>Meg had finished dinner and drifted to sleep in Randy's arms while Randy's mind had drifted back to their accidental locker room soda pop fight, and her even breathing helped him relax, stilled the frenetic worries and fears jumbling around in his mind. "Like you said, Meggie," he whispered, "Tomorrow." He shifted carefully around her, stripping down to his boxers and keeping the wine within reach. In the dim light of the room, her face was peaceful, and she clung to him through each movement he made. "But fuck me, I don't want to leave. Promise me you're gonna be here, Meg?"<p>

Fingers tracing cool lines up and down Randy's chest, Meg burrowed against him. _'It's all a fucking mess, Meg. Tell me you want me to stay, and I'll quit tomorrow. As soon as the office opens.'_ He watched her, not knowing how long he alternated between playing with the ends of her hair and finishing off the rest of the wine. It was only when a nightmare began to shake Meg from sleep into misery that he realized what a disaster his return to the ring was about to become. _'You haven't had a nightmare in a while, Meg. And I'm not gonna be here, and you're not gonna talk to me about it.'_

She feigned sleep for the rest of the night, not wanting to worry him with her thoughts of Jackson, the emotions that came with the thoughts, the constant feeling that she was falling but never sure where she would land. His whispered confession scared her; she'd never had someone so invested in her, never learned what to do with a relationship that was functional, never learned how not to break things that were fragile. Randy held still as well, not daring to look at her – in part because he didn't want her to worry that he wasn't sleeping, and in part because he wasn't sure what he'd see in her eyes if he met them.


	29. Gift Wrapped, Licensed, And Hotel Ready

All my hearts and stars to nattiebroskette, eyexlinerxwhore, sweethigh, blackhat, chellelew, and anyone out there still bothering to read...I do love the love, keep it coming!

Think of this one as a little filler and some implied hotness before Meg gets her ass back in gear backstage and the sparks start to fly. To my dear Ms. Eyeliner: There are plans for Joe, and I promise you, they do not involve a car. Well, not that way.

* * *

><p>The scent of roses was thick in the air, and Joe breathed their odor in hungrily, trailing after the source. His wife was buried in the shoe section of the nearest shopping mall, so he didn't have to worry about her spotting him running to and fro backstage like a pig on the hunt for truffles. <em>'You're here, somewhere. You have to be. Nobody else wears that, and if they do, I'm going to find them and make them take it off. No. I'm going to take it off of them.'<em> Joe could hear Randy's voice echoing down the halls, and wasn't sure if it came from catering, triage, or his own mind. He sounded happy, relaxed, almost smug, and the scowl cutting Joe's face began to slice deeper as he strode through the arena.

If he'd stopped any shorter or harder when he came around the corner into the hall near gorilla, he might have sprained an ankle. There was Meg, tall, pale, made taller still by the spiky heels on her shoes – a far cry from the ratty work boots she used to wear backstage – slender, and firmly ensconced in Randy's left arm; his right was occupied with her phone, trying to take a picture that included him, Meg, and a slew of people who were all squealing and trying to pry her out from under his arm into welcome-back hugs, elevated spins, and a whole host of other affectionate gestures. From performers and talent to crew and stagehands, the horde surrounding Meg was at least four people deep, all clamoring to greet her and bring her back into the fold. The atmosphere was nearing carnival levels of intensity; people Joe didn't even realize were part of the company were flying from corridors and doorways, all trying to wrap Meg in their arms, touch her, know that she was real – and not a soul was asking _why_ she was present. It was simply enough that she was there. Back. Home in the circus that only the backstage environment of a wrestling show could produce.

Leaning on a wall nearby, Dave crossed his arms over his chest and smiled warmly, opting to save his embrace for when he wouldn't have to fight a crowd to offer it. Joe's jaw dropped, worked its way shut, then dropped again, leaving him looking much like a gasping, beached sea creature. Out o the corner of his eye he saw Dave, looking far too calm and comfortable, and his temper exploded. Stalking over to the older man, Joe intentionally positioned himself to block Dave's view of Meg, his breathing heavy.

"Were you _planning _on telling me she was coming back? That she was here?" Joe crowded Dave's space, trying to intimidate his way into answers. Nothing on Dave's face belied even an iota of fear.

"She told me you two talked. I assumed she told you what was going on. Joe...it's not my job to work this shit out for you. You're _married_."

"I fucking know I'm married!" Joe's voice, a scream that came from somewhere well past anguish and full of things that leaked from a much darker place, caused the entire crowd around Meg to drop into startled silence. Meg gently disentangled herself from Randy's arm, patted his hand, and with as much balance as she could muster, ambled over toward the two men.

_'Thank God for tall boots, ankle reinforcements, and having backup about ten feet away from me. This is gonna get ugly.'_ Meg tried to force a confident smile onto her face, but her visage was just as taut as Joe's voice was wounded. "Dave! You said you were gonna walk me around, and here you are ditching me for Joe instead." She closed her hand tightly around Dave's elbow, pulling him away from Joe and across the face of the wall, passing him behind her and toward the group of people – all having switched modes from a welcoming party to a henhouse. "And Joe," she continued, her lips tightening further, "I'm so glad to see you. Welcome back, though I know you've been back for a while. I'll see you around, I'm sure. Dave, c'mon. I need you to walk me to triage so I can set up my concierge bags." She patted Joe on the arm, and moved away.

Walking back towards the crowd, Meg leaned in to Dave and whispered, "You know, he's gonna kill you. Be careful. And meet me in triage, but in a half hour or so. Make yourself scarce for now."

"Meg, like I haven't been dealing with this? His bullshit is just bullshit."

"Yeah, but it's different now that I'm here." Reuniting with the group, Randy was quick to pull her back into his arms, spinning her so they both faced Joe. He buried his face in her hair, trailed a hand down her arm, and then looked up, meeting Joe's hateful stare with a look of his own that dared him to finish the fight he'd started months ago. Meg could feel Randy's body tense behind her, and pressed her hips back against him, in part to provoke Joe and in part to reassure Randy that she was here for him and with him, no one else. _'See this? I'm his now. Him. Not yours. You need to stop, Joe. Not to Dave, not to Randy, and sure as shit not to me.'_

April leaned over to her and giggled. "You suck at being subtle. And thank God you're back; that other guy was a creeper. Dave's _so_ glad he's gone, but he's just too nice to say it." She wrapped Meg in another hug. "So tell me again how this concierge deal works?"

"Basically, I'm everyone's bitch." Meg chuckled, rubbing Randy's arms. "Okay, I'm just _his_ bitch. I'm everyone else's private off-hours nurse. It's a sweet deal. I can help Dave off the books backstage if the situation is hairy, but primarily – officially – I'm supposed to be doing hotel work. You guys call me, I show up. Simple as that. No more waiting for us to show up, no more creeper guy, just overall better care and no worrying about bothering anyone at two in the morning because – and here's the best part – I'm staying in the same hotel as you all." Meg winked up at Randy. "Wonder how _that_ happened, huh?"

He leaned down and kissed the top of her head. "I have _no_ idea, Meg. But I bet corporate is happy that they don't have to get you an extra room." Meg's eyes flew wide, and several of the members of the crowd threw up appreciative whistles and shouts.

Joe simply stared, taking in the scene in front of him. Rage had given way to cold. Meg still smelled of roses, he heard her talking around a caramel and could smell it on her breath, along with a vague odor of cigarettes that wasn't altogether unpleasant. But her fingers – those horrible, delicious, tapering twigs of ice that laid frost on his skin – felt like they'd burnt him where she touched his arm.

"What the fuck happened, Meg? How did you get _here_?" Joe rubbed at his arm, whispering, not daring to move from where he stood but at the same time feeling every bone in his body ache to propel him across the floor and directly at Randy. "And now that you're here, what do I do? How do I get you to listen?"

* * *

><p>"For once, you had good timing. I owe you, Meg." Dave, after having wrapped Meg in a dozen hugs of gratitude and relief, was showing her around the triage bays, not that she needed the refresher. She'd replaced all of the items the way they'd been before she'd left, completely upending the useless replacement hire's 'organizational' system – which hadn't been much of a system at all. With things back the way they needed to be, everyone seemed to exhale. Everyone, that is, except Joe.<p>

"So...Meg...catch me up on how all this happened? I know I told you I'd help you get the job and then somehow you just show up here, contract all handled? And in dress pants and hooker boots?" Dave flicked a cotton ball at Meg's footwear, laughing brightly. "I guess you didn't need me at all, huh?"

"It's a long story. You got the time for this?" Meg looked skeptical; it was only 35 minutes to go time; typically they'd be swamped with people needing last-minute tape-ups, wraps, and adjustments.

"I'll take my chances. I'd rather get half a story than no dirt at all."

"For practically being my dad, you're such a girl." Meg flexed at the waist and snagged the cotton ball from the floor, biffing it at Dave's nose. "Randy talked me into getting films of my leg. That's kinda how the whole job thing got started."

"Uh, what? You went to see a doctor, willingly, and it got your job back?"

"No. Well, sort-of. My leg's a mess. You said I had hooker boots; they're actually custom. Here, look." Meg propped herself against the table and slipped her pants up over her calf, slowly unzipping the boot on her right leg and wincing as she went. "It's got all kind of shit in it. Lifts, risers, blocking, there's giant metal strips along the sides...it's like a combat leg, basically."

"Okay...but what does that have to do with-"

"Like I said. Randy talked me into getting films done on my leg." Meg motioned Dave over, and he helped her hop up onto the exam table. "There's basically...nothing...left in there, as far as my shin goes. It's all dust. Well, not dust, but it's in small pieces. Shit broke, and re-broke, and the screws and pins didn't so anything. They probably made it worse. Kept moving, kept prying things apart."

"Jesus Christ, Meg. Did you get them out? It'll help everything knit back together; you probably have shitty adhesion because you're so anemic and if you just get the metal out then-"

Meg held her hand up. "I know. But the kind of surgery I'd need...I can't do it. I'd be completely under. I'd be in the hospital. Catheters, IVs, sedatives, opiates...I just can't. I'm taking vicodin now, for management, and that's as far as I can go. Randy and I fought – I actually walked out for a couple days and stayed with Sarah, just to get my head straight – but we decided that until I'm ready, or if I'm ever ready, the best thing we can do is try to keep it together around what's in there. Our agreement was, I move back in and let his ortho work with me non-surgically, and I..."

"And you what?"

"Honestly? I don't think I asked him for anything. I fucking _hate_ when he's right, but I got him to lay off the push for surgery. He was getting overbearing; it was triggering me. I woke up one night and hit him with a wine bottle. Didn't break it or anything, but I bruised the hell out of his arm."

Dave wiped his hand over his face, trying to take it all in. "Okay. One thing at a time. You moved in with Randy?"

"Yeah. He...was worried. I mean, more than that, before that, we finally got it out in the open. He loves me. He wants me to be with him, _really_ be with him, and once we both realized we don't know what the fuck we're doing and we're going to screw up all the time, it got easier." She eased her boot back onto her leg, the bruising making Dave wince the further she pulled the zipper upward. "I won't lie. It _sucked_ the first few weeks. I was overmedicating myself, he was angry about having to come back here, I didn't feel like I fit in his house, he was worried about my leg...it was all just for shit."

"Yeah...you said you stayed with Sarah. About what happened with her...she's okay, right?"

"Honestly? I don't know. We haven't really talked, and I should fix that. Even when I stayed at her place, it was more like 'Oh, hi roommate.' We co-existed. It made me realize I had to go home, and Randy was home. I wasn't solving anything by running, even if I was only running a couple miles. Randy was at least kind enough to let me go." She smiled sheepishly. "Old habits, I guess. I'm better, though. I didn't leave the state. Fuck, I didn't even leave the zip code."

"But things are clearly better now." Dave smiled and rubbed Meg's arm. "Between you and Randy, I mean. He was all over you, outside. And you're here – must have blown his mind."

"Hardest secret I've ever had to keep, Dave. Ever. Not talking about Jackson was easy, because I didn't want anyone to get hurt. Not telling Randy about this was killing me."

"How did that work, exactly?"

Meg laughed uproariously. "Oh, let's just say you wouldn't have appreciated the show." A knock sounded at the door, and Dave rushed to open it.

"Tell me anyway? Just keep it PG-13; I have high cholesterol and a bad heart." He ushered Tenille into the triage bay, finding himself being ignored by her as she nearly tackled Meg to the floor in a sorority-style hug.

Meg set about wrapping Tenille's ankles while she bopped her feet back and forth against the table, rhythmically nodding her head to the noise in her iPod. Convinced she wasn't listening to anything "Well, Dave, if you really wanna know..."

* * *

><p><em>'-Meg couldn't help but roll her eyes at herself; her hands hadn't shook this badly even before she stabbed Jackson in the car. 'It's a fucking envelope, Meg. Open it.' She managed not one, but two paper cuts on her thumb before giving up and tamping the paper down into one of the short ends of the envelope, tearing the opposite short end open and shaking out the single sheet inside. Meg inhaled deeply before unfolding the sheet. She was surrounded by Randy's scent – it was his (no, their) house, it made sense that somehow he'd be there even in spirit, reassuring her – and she hadn't ever been so glad to be back, to be home, to feel his arms around her even if he wasn't really there.<em>

"_Fucking corporate," Meg muttered to herself, "Because I don't want to open this alone...but I wouldn't show it to you, either."_ _Unfolding the paper, Meg read what she'd hoped for, and secretly known would happen all along – she was now nationally recognized, fully licensed, and had her own phone call to make to corporate._

_The phone call went surprisingly well. Meg knew Dave had set something up for her; she just wasn't sure what the terms were, and she hoped she didn't need to go through Dave to get the deal in motion. After allowing them full and open access to her medical and legal records, corroborating Dave's version of events, and swearing up and down that she really was ready to return to her job, they offered her a contract that mirrored the tenure of Randy's, if not the terms. Apparently impressed with her dedication to the company, headquarters made Meg a 'Medical Concierge' – rather than have their talent wait for non-critical assistance to show up at the hotel, Meg would simply be staying with Randy and going on inter-hotel calls as needed, monitoring non-critical post-show care, and generally being a record keeping healthcare badass, all while assisting Dave and doing the minimal amount of gruntwork necessary backstage during live shows to keep herself in the loop without hurting herself._

_The only thing she'd asked for was to keep it a secret from Randy – not because there would be an issue, but because she missed him terribly and wanted to surprise him. Talent Relations, who had conferenced in on her call, was only too quick to agree to her request. Randy had been miserable since he'd returned to work. His back was in prime shape, as was the rest of him, but his mind was elsewhere, in bed with cool skin and flexible hips and rose perfume, where he was safe and she was home. He worked, he traveled, he spent every free second with his phone glued to his head and his laptop open, video chat nearly running 24-7. He didn't mind the phone sex, he enjoyed the shows she put on for him on Skype, but it wasn't the same thing as feeling her move under him, around him, hearing her breath start to hitch right before her fingernails dug into his chest and she arched up into him. They'd just started playing with silk ribbons in bed before he'd gotten his call to come back, and he carried the image of red and grey ribbons, gently woven around her wrists, with him onto the plane as he boarded._

_When she'd asked why he picked red and grey – the question came later, as they lay tangled together on the floor of the dining room, after he'd let her arms loose from behind her and gently lifted her from his lap, all shivers and shudders, both of them unwilling to stay in the high-backed chair they'd started in at the table (and where the vision of her riding him, wrists bound behind her, back arching, was going to make for some intensely inappropriate dinner conversation) – and also unwilling to make the trek to their bed just yet – the answer was simple:_

"_They reminded me of my birthday present, Meggie."_

_She hummed pleasantly in his arms, curling closer to him on the floor, feeling the silky threads of the Oriental rug underneath her. "I'm just as good as wrestling boots?" Her voice was playful, and she traced her fingers along the contours of the muscles crisscrossing his shoulders and arms._

"_You want me to get metaphorical?" Randy chuckled and pulled her gently on top of him. "When I put those on, I trusted you. You knew what I needed. And right now, I'm pretty sure you did something really fucking trusting with me. I knew what you needed. Or...at least, I knew what you'd be okay with."_

_She hummed again, and pressed her hips down against him, her hands searching the floor for the ribbons. "I'm not ready to turn the tables on you just yet. I think I like you knowing me. Show me what else you know?"_

* * *

><p>By the time Meg was done, Dave's face was scarlet and Tenille was struggling to stop from arching her eyebrows into her hairline, Meg not having noticed her turn the volume on her iPod down. "I told you, dumbass, you didn't want to know." She stuck her tongue out at Dave.<p>

"So, wait. I get you back as my assistant because Randy tied you up with gift-wrap?"

"Basically." Meg patted Tenille's feet after finishing the laces on her boots. "It made me realize, I trust him. I need him as much as he needs me. It's probably always been that way, but we both kept fucking it up, and I wanted to do something for him to...even the scales, I guess? He chased me across the fucking country. It wasn't like packing a suitcase and getting on a plane to catch up to you guys was such a big deal. Sarah's keeping an eye on his place. He's okay with it. And I've got a license and a real contract."

"But you still haven't really talked to Sarah."

"I know, I know. She's really the only...she's the one relationship I've still got to fix."

"Untrue." Joe stated, flatly, from the doorway. "You owe me a long, long discussion."


	30. Living The Good Lies

EyexLinerxWhore – Ohh, you have no idea. You're gonna hate me at the end. I promise. BUT I LOVE YOU!

DieselAnnaNights – My readers, reviewers, followers, favoriters, and silent-stalkers are the reason I do this. Without you guys, I'm just another ego-stroking nobody with a keyboard, so when anyone acknowledges me, in any small way, I absolutely have to thank you. You took time out for me!

The same goes for ALL of my R&R's, F&F's, and silent stalkers, and you know who you are, especially nattie, chelle, mom2, blackhat, sweethigh, cougar, westie, and the dozens I'm sure I'm missing. Just the fact you're out there makes me smile like you have no idea. Like Meg with a bottle of tequila, I imagine. (And really, nattiebroskette – the best beta, best-bestie, best writing reality-check, best-best I could have met through a love of all things spandex and rough-bump related – a huge part of the reason I keep this thing going. I was about ready to walk away in the middle of the whole plagiarism debacle. And when I couldn't get Randy's shirt off the right way. That took AN ENTIRE WEEK.)

Mom2 – THANK YOU for saying I'm not writing her as a Sue. Thank you thank you thank you. I write, I re-write, I beta with my beta-buddy nattie, and then I tear my hair out for a solid hour wondering if I'm making it all too campy and fake. It's wonderful to hear that they're reading like people, not like hormonally-charged drama-bombs. Occasionally dramatic, sure, (Hey, we have to have SOME plot, people) but not so overwrought that you wanna smack them for breathing.

ONWARD!

* * *

><p>Logically, Joe knew Meg would eventually end up in triage, either to pack the concierge bags she'd mentioned to Dave, or just to knock around and see people as they filtered through before the show was fully underway. The company memo issued before the show gave him a great excuse to filter through as well; every employee had been told to speak directly to Dave or Meg and get the official packet explaining the purpose of the medical concierge service, how to get in contact, what the service could and couldn't be used for, and all the associated legal mumbo-jumbo that had to be signed off on. If the caller hadn't signed for the service, they couldn't use it and would have to either tough it out or wait for standard, land-route paramedics to arrive.<p>

Everyone from stagehand to high-power talent signed, quickly and eagerly. Joe made sure not to appear too excited about the prospect of having easy access to Meg; as much as he wanted to call ten times a night (or just once and keep her with him) he also knew that his wife wouldn't allow for it and Meg would be immediately suspicious about his motivations.

So, he waited and considered his options for approaching her. And while he did, he mulled, paced, digested, recounted and reshuffled, all while trying half-heartedly to prep for his match. The match, he knew, would be useless, but seeing Meg made it easier for him to let go of caring what happened in his script, caring about whether or not he'd catch heat or pop, who wrote his promos and how they'd be delivered, whether his incision would burn or merely ache after his match – all he wanted was to talk to her. Make her listen, somehow, and not only that, but make her care, believe, understand, feel all the things he felt now and should have felt _then, _but was too...prideful, arrogant, blind, all of those things and more, to admit he felt. Now, he felt bitterly hollow.

His mulling brought him no easy answers. It mostly brought him back to his wedding. She'd picked the venue, the colors, the catering, cake, décor, guest lists and music choices, which left nearly no room for his family and their traditions because they were too...'earthy,' as Meg would say. She wanted Vera Wang by way of Vogue Magazine, and because she wanted it, she got it, just to shut her up. The hundreds of thousands of dollars that followed in expenses and costs did the exact opposite to Joe; the noise he made about the costs made him long for the days where Meg would grouse about borrowing quarters from him for the vending machines. _'Seventy-five cents for one of those chocolate caramel thingies, and Meg would be apologizing to me for hours. God forbid she wanted a Diet Dr. Pepper to go with it and catering was out of them; she cried one time when I pulled my wallet out since the goddamned vending machine wouldn't take quarters. And she always paid me back, too. Or offered to split with me, even though I can't stand that aspartame shit. Sticks to my teeth. So did those caramels, but she'd put those in her lips and dare me to kiss them out.'_ Joe wound his script into spirals, back and forth, before throwing it into his gear bag, not caring to actually read it.

Even the honeymoon was set entirely by his wife; there was no compromise on the location. She wanted Europe, Joe wanted something small, tropical, and soaked in the sort of darkly-sugared rum that put his mind on Meg's caramel edge, with the end result being that their days were spent on couple's tours of the historical art and architecture of the Western world's finer fashion boutiques. Their nights were spent in overly-crowded too-short beds, chilled through by the weather and frozen further by the lack of chemistry between them. _'All the chemistry of dry ice, anyway. Frigid. The sex sucked. The weather sucked. The everything sucked. Meg would have wanted something warm, like I did. She loved the beach at our house. How many times did I chase her down the beach into the surf? Thank God it was getting dark that one time I caught her by the bikini strings; everything came off. She wasn't mad at me, she just stopped running and undid the rest of it and made me follow her in the water. That was the first time I – we – ever made love in the ocean. The sun was setting. The neighbors probably saw, but I didn't care. She was so beautiful...everyone should see beautiful things.' _Joe had torn so many pieces of tape off of the roll he was holding that he knew there wouldn't be enough left to tape his hands; he brushed the still-curling script to the floor and dug another roll out of his bag and began to wrap his wrists in earnest.

The dress was beautiful but overly ornate, dripping crystals and small beads and followed by a train that seemed to go on for miles. _'Ironic, since I fucked her so many times. My mother was so offended she wouldn't go with ivory. Champagne. Whatever the fuck women call that color when they're supposed to know better than wearing white.'_ The church was cavernous, and despite the hundreds of people filling it, couldn't have felt more empty. Joe remembered he had a hard time seeing anything in color that day, had a hard time seeing anything as more than greyish shards of time. It wasn't that he was overwhelmed; rather, he was underwhelmed. There was nothing that made him beam at her the way he knew he was supposed to, but he felt the expression on his face because he knew it was supposed to be there. He reached for her at the altar, because that was what good grooms did. Their kiss was pleasantly, sweetly chaste, as though there was some respect for the venue and atmosphere, some reverence for the event, but it was really just a part of the vacuum in Joe's mind and body, a mechanical action performed for the sake of appearance and tradition. _'Did I ever stop smiling at Meg? Everything was more bright, more intense, more focused, just more. It all felt better, and when it didn't, she could – would – just touch me and it would fix itself. I would break and she would put me back together. Eventually I stopped breaking. Then Jackson happened, and she broke herself for me. I don't think I'm ever gonna understand that one. She should have understood that I could take care of myself, take care of her, but she didn't. Didn't she trust me? Or trust us, trust the idea of us, that we could survive it?'_ It occurred to Joe, slowly, that Meg had trusted all those things, just trusted them to come true at the end, when she came back. He kept wrapping his hands in tape, kept mentally replaying the wedding and reception.

Whatever had happened at the reception, he'd managed to keep himself out of a majority of the photographs, telling the photographer to focus on his wife and leave him as much alone as was possible while he stewed himself in bourbon as soon as the dinner portion of the evening was over. _'She's such a whore for attention, anyway – it'll take her forty fucking minutes to set herself up for each picture.'_ He mused over Meg throughout that night, the way she would likely have thrown herself into his family and planned a reception that was actually enjoyable, not some crisp-linen-and-fine-china affair that left everyone sitting slightly uncomfortably in their chairs, afraid to break anything. _'But that's her. It would have been traditional, but it would have been both of us. Her voodoo Catholic Louisiana Russian shit, and my islander culture, and it would have just...worked. I'd be in all the photos. My mother would have gone traditional with our family's type of wedding dress for her. The cake would have been dulce de leche, and she would have let me get her in the face with it. Roses and orchids. Goofy photos. I would have kissed her like I meant it. Maybe I could have talked her into a tattoo.'_ By the time his mind snapped him away from what little he remembered of the reception and the million details he both remembered and imagined of Meg, he'd wrapped his wrists so thoroughly in tape that his fingers were darkening and he'd had to strip the whole mess off and start over so he actually had movement and circulation.

Pacing didn't do much to help, either, other than agitate his incision and keep his edgy nerves even edgier.

He decided to sit, which let him calm enough to lead to a mental count and tally of both of their rights and wrongs. She shouldn't have left, should have let him help somehow, found a lawyer, asked for the hotel security tape, anything – though he had a good idea of what went on, both at his hotel the night she came to him and Randy, and then again once Meg found Jackson. Randy wasn't the only one with the ability to sign a FOIA request, and while Joe hadn't managed to get hold of Meg's medical records (that required her signed consent, and forgery was, surprisingly, a felony he wasn't willing to attempt), the police, fire, and ambulance information painted a bleak enough picture that he wasn't sure he ever wanted to read the hospital reports. _'You went through a window, Meg. The car didn't land on you, but it should have. You shouldn't have come out of the car with your leg still attached. You shouldn't be able to move your arm, anymore. Why didn't you put my phone number down? I would have come. Randy explained how to work that phone shit; I would have come. Or even Dave. It's not like you would have fallen in love with Dave. Did you love Randy then? You replaced me before you even got to my door, Meg. Or were you planning on dying and you didn't want me to see it?'_

He'd done no better than she did; not only did he let her leave after the certified mail came in, but he'd done his damnedest to make sure she stayed gone even after her return. When Meg showed up on his doorstep in Tampa, damp from sweat, her long hair sticky down her neck, he'd wanted to scruff his then-fiancee, shove her out the door, and hold Meg in his arms as long as she'd allow it. Then, his internal conflict started. As much physical pain as he was in, he could read ten times that on her face. Even worse, the backs of her eyes showed such raw emotional scarring that he wanted to push her as far away as he could and never look again. Until he looked again. Heard her start to apologize. And then Joe knew, if he heard he speak a second more, even another single syllable, he'd be done, he really _would_ be pushing his fiancee out the door, there'd never be a wedding – or even room in him – for anyone other than Meg, and that terrified him. He'd kept the shirts she slept in, he'd wrapped the once-used engagement ring in them, having every intent of melting it down and starting over, shaping it into something personal for her, a series of roses and fleur-de-lys, and he'd felt like he ought to let go of it all but deep down knew he never would.

So instead, he delivered the promo of a lifetime, hoping he was acting as cold as her hands always felt, giving her enough of a reason to simply turn her back on him and go, cut all the ties, but he underestimated her stubbornness, willpower, and sheer dogged devotion. Later, when he read the reports, he started to understand: in her mind, everything she'd done, everything she'd gone through, really was all to protect him. _'Why she did all that...why I didn't believe she would do all that...she loved me. Everything she wrote in that note was the truth, and I chose not to believe her.'_

Then, with no warning at all, she came back, Randy's arms around her in the hallway. The way they looked at each other was as intimate as anything Meg had ever demonstrated toward Joe openly backstage, and then he remembered how she'd turn her eyes to him in the same way, over coffee, after sex, simply across a corridor when they passed each other right before she palmed him some perfumed sheet of hotel stationery where she'd written a thousand things he'd never known how to say himself. _'He held her like he didn't know, either. The way I wanted to hold her – like you couldn't let go, like if you did it might all just disappear. But he was so content. Protective. The way I wanted to be. The way I'd still be with her if she'd just fucking let me get near her. Just talk to her. I can convince her to come back to me; it's not like my wife matters. Not like the marriage matters. It's all just paperwork. Meg is real.'_

That score ended up one-one, fuckups all set at a tie between the two of them, the count even, especially since he refused to add the staged break-in to the tally. There, Joe was still puzzling with himself. He wanted to be angry that he'd gone so far, that he'd risked Meg so thoroughly – it wasn't like he _knew_ the idiot he hired would actually stop when he promised he would – but he had to know she was there, had to know that she'd rejected him completely and started over with the one person who couldn't have broken his heart more thoroughly. _'I remember when you called me your brother. You helped me understand her. You kept her safe when I couldn't, on the nights she'd stay with you when I was gone. You, Orton, hurt me more than she did – but she didn't mean to. Did you?'_

Ultimately, it all left him shuffling. Memories, touches, whispers, the tiny stolen moments that he'd learned to recognize when they happened between other performers, other talent, other techs, and learned to let go of in his life. Those moments rarely if ever happened between his wife; she handled his credit cards more tenderly than she handled him. _'Who whores for who, then? I fuck her because I let her use my credit cards, or she lets me fuck her because of that, or if it wasn't for the cards I wouldn't be fucking her, or am I just buying access while she's buying dresses she leaves the tags on and then won't return?'_

* * *

><p>It took several people pounding on the door to his locker room before he realized it was time for his promos to be filmed, and he wondered if the crowd would be behind him or simply telling him how boring he was.<p>

Turned out, the path to Renee's set led him past triage, which led him to slow his steps. Neither Meg nor Dave had bothered shutting the door after Tenille walked in; too many people kept knocking, eager to see Meg, and it wasn't as though Tenille was showing any inappropriate part of her body. This let Meg's voice carry much farther than she intended, and as soon as Joe heard Meg say her wrists had been tied and she'd enjoyed it _and_ she trusted Randy during the whole thing. his eyes widened. She kept going, talking about how the whole thing had flipped some mental switch for her, brought her back, made her want to be here in her circus-cum-family-away-from-home, and it just killed Joe. The icy burn her fingers had left on her arm felt like lava; it shot across his skin and felt blistering, dropped lower, crawled around his thighs and tightened until it pressed him against the wall, where he stood silently, still listening, feeling his legs grow tighter and tighter, his thoughts prepared to snap and propel him forward into the room, into Meg. _'You never let me do that. Ever. I never asked, you never offered, but we never...didn't you trust me? Wouldn't I get you off like that? I would have used blue, that same cerulean from the first night I made love to you. You were beautiful, Meg, you were in moonlight and in wine and I was in you. Your hands wouldn't be behind you, Meg, in all that blue ribbon. I would have wanted to see you. See how you wanted to move, what you wanted to touch. Would you have let me tie you to the bed? Ribbon, or silk? Have you ever let him blindfold you? Does he tell you what to do in bed, Meg? I never did that to you. Did I ever want to? We weren't like that, Meg. You never said you wanted it, liked it...did you need something I didn't give you? I can do that for you, Meg. I promise, I can. Let me show you. Let me tell you I remember how beautiful you were, and then let me show you. I never showed you the right way.'_

* * *

><p>Joe was snapped from his reverie by Tenille, who sped past him as though both she and he were on fire. Joe had no way of knowing Dave had spotted him and told Tenille to run as fast as she could to find Randy, tell him to get his ass to triage double-quick, regardless of what else he was doing, tell him Meg needed him <em>now <em>and it wasn't negotiable. Then, all Dave could do was hold his breath and pray while Joe loomed in the hallway, moved toward the doorway, hovered in the room. Any time Joe said something was owed him, it was a sign a disaster wasn't far behind.

Meg, for her part, slipped her hand into the front pocket of her suit jacket and grabbed her phone, unlocking it and gripping it firmly in her hand before turning to face Joe. Dave glanced over at the screen and saw it was lit, but couldn't tell whose number was up. _'Please have some sense, Meg. Get Randy down here. Joe will back down, at least for now.'_

She cleared her throat, almost casually, and motioned Joe further into the room, causing Dave to throw his hands in the air and roll his head back. As soon as Joe crossed Dave's plane of vision, Meg pointed across the back of her phone, directing Dave out the door. _'Go, dumbass. Go, and help Tenille. Two people looking is better than one, and I can handle myself here. Go now.'_ Dave seemed to understand Meg's unspoken thoughts and passed quickly out the door, heading the opposite way the younger girl had sprinted, making sure to pop the peg lock on the door as he passed it, hoping Joe wouldn't notice it now couldn't be locked.

"Joe, I'm glad you're here. I need you to sign on the screen for the concierge agreement." _'And please do not read it first, because yours is oh-so-special.' _Meg remained pleasantly distant, neither irritated nor impressed by Joe's sudden arrival in triage. "Nice work with the tape, too." She gestured at his hands. _'Distraction worked with one idiot in my life; let's see if it works with you. I don't have to get you in a car. I just have to get you out of here.'_

Karma smiled on her; Joe grabbed at the Toughbook she held out to him and skimmed the stylus across the signature box. "You should shut the door when you're gonna have a conversation like that. You never know who's listening."

"What, about Randy? Joe, nothing I do with him embarrasses me. I'm sorry you heard it if it upset you, but it was a conversation with Dave. Not with you." Meg's tone was now clipped, and signaled an end to that discussion. "Was there something else you needed to talk about?"

"Yeah. How do I set up appointments with you? I need workouts after each match. My back and sides lock up." _'There. Easiest 'in' ever. How could you be so...easy?'_

"Hate to break it to you, Joe," Meg switched from clipped to pity, and quickly slid around him to the door, "But you actually don't have access to Concierge services. You signed an agreement to emergency medical only. You're recovering from major surgery and Talent Relations, the Wellness Board, and the Liability Directors all decided that CS wouldn't be handling you. We can offer palliative care to emergent situations backstage only; anything else and anything off-site is 9-1-1. I'm sorry."

Joe lunged at her; Meg held stock-still and waited, eyes open but glazed, for the punch she believed would be coming. "And you didn't _think _to tell me that _before_ I signed that shit?" He towered over her, fists clenched at his sides, but didn't move further. "So you're no fucking good to me, is what it means."

"Joe," Meg whispered, "I was _never_ any fucking good to you. You told me so. Remember Tampa?"

Randy's footfalls, light and quick, were headed down the hallway at record speed. The door to the triage bay was still open, and he could see someone's shadow cast out on the floor in the hallway. Dave, heavier and slower, struggled to keep up behind him, Tenille sticking close to Dave's side to make sure he didn't keel over.

"Meg, all I want to do is _talk_ to you. Just talk." Joe's hands had relaxed and the regret was immediately obvious on his face. _'Why the fuck did I say that? Why do I jump to angry every time you tell me I fucked up? I know I fucked up, Meg, I can't tell you you're right if you don't give me a chance.'_

"I'm not going to do that, Joe. I don't have anything I need to say, and you don't have anything I want to hear."

"_Please_, Meg. I miss you." His voice was desperate.

"And you'll see me around. That'll be enough."

"Just seeing you is _not_ enough anymore!" Joe's hands sped toward Meg just in time for Randy to wrap an arm around her from behind and lift her up, backwards, out past the door and into the hall, where the group of four watched as Joe embraced nothing but the air where Meg had been standing.

"Don't come back here, Joe." Randy's voice, atonal, was terrifying in its complete lack of emotion. "Don't come back to this room, don't come near her or Dave, just don't. There is nothing here for you. Show up, do your job, leave. That's all that's here for you, anymore." A smirk crept across Dave's face, and even Tenille couldn't resist a half-lovey sigh at Randy's defense of Meg. "Now. I believe you were walking away. Your promo gets filmed down _there_, not here in triage." Less a question and more an absolute statement, Joe slunk from the room and out towards Renee, now visible at the end of the hall with her hands on her hips, wondering what the hell had just happened to her interview.

* * *

><p><em>'That asshole. All I had to do was hold her. If I just held her, she would have understood. I know she can still feel...something...for me. She's fucking kidding herself if she thinks she loves him. He's using her. I never had to tie her up to show her I loved her. I never had to put her in whore-boots and parade her around in front of people. However Meg came to me was enough. He's such an asshole. I just need to see her, and I can't see her. I just need a way to see her.'<em> Joe's slinking turned to stalking, and he fairly sailed into Renee's interview area.

"Did you read over the script?" Her tone was cautious; while she hadn't heard what had gone on outside of triage, she'd watched the scene play out, and it didn't look like Joe had come out on top.

"Fuck the script. I don't sound like that, I don't play like that, and I'm not _reading_ that."

"You...we...can't just go off-"

Snatching the microphone from her hand before she could even begin her introduction, Joe waved to the camerman to begin filming, and began to speak. Renee just gestured upward, and stepped back.

"Some of you don't seem to understand who I am. What I'm about. Some of you think I'm weak. That I don't handle my business, or now that I'm by myself you can try to push me around, tell me how it's gonna work for me, what I can and can't have. Where I belong. What belongs to me. What doesn't belong to me. I'm here to tell you, that's not how it works here. That's not how it works out there, that's not how it works backstage, that's just _not how it works._ I get what I want. I can have what I want. I can go where I want. None of you get to tell me I can't. Some of us need to talk some things out. Some of us need to get together and _work_ some things out. I'm gonna promise you, it's _gonna_ happen. There are some things I'm gonna get back. Believe that." He slammed the microphone into Renee, nearly knocking her down in the process, with the camera cutting to her very real look of pain while she rubbed her arm. Shaking her head, she refused to entertain the idea of cutting the promo a second time even if Joe had gone off-script, deciding to walk down to triage herself, suggest a drug test for him, and an ice pack for her.

_'That asshole. He does not get to tell me I can't talk to her. I promised her if she ever told me to go away I'd do it, but she never said that. She just said she didn't want to talk. She doesn't have to talk, she can just listen to me. All I need to tell her is how much I still love her, that this whole marriage thing is a mistake, that it should have been her. It always has been her, it still is her.' _Joe took the long way back around to his locker room, thinking about what he could do to isolate Meg just long enough to explain himself.

* * *

><p>"Tenille, do me a favor?" Meg's smile was gentle, belying the amount of irritation she felt at the situation.<p>

"Sure, love. Anything. You are _so_ lucky. He's head over heels for you. That was _so_ romantic!"

"Heh. Yeah, which one?" A dry chuckle escaped Meg, she couldn't help it. Eying Randy as he talked to Dave, who was doing his level best to calm him, she continued. "Look...about that shit with Joe...I know what Randy did was sweet, but until things die down...Talent Relations doesn't need to crawl up Randy's ass, you know? And I don't want things being harder than they need to be for Joe. It'd really help me out if you just let their little pissing contest kinda...die...as a topic of conversation. You know, don't mention it to anyone." Meg clutched Tenille's hands. "Please? I need a smooth day. This shit with Joe...it's not helping my nerves. You know how it is being new. And you especially know how it is when outside bad press follows you."

"My lips are zipped. I'm not up for starting shit for anyone. Besides, all those hot stories? I wanna keep my open invitation to triage!" Tenille beamed at Meg and scooted off to the women's locker room, Randy approaching Meg to take her place.

"Everything gonna be cool with her, or do I have to giver her the 'Don't be a newbie and start gossip' speech?"

"No, she gets it. She went through her own outside drama with that shoplifting thing; she's not gonna spread anything. If it gets started, it's on Joe." Dave slid past the two of them, nodded, and shut the door to triage.

Randy pulled Meg into a tight hug. "It'll be alright. He'll get used to it. And if he doesn't, fuck him. I'll get you a can of mace." He tilted her back and brushed a small, stray lock of hair out of her face. "Your leg holding up okay?"

"As okay as it's gonna be on a concrete floor. I'm not used to playing dress-up like this, but it's part of the job. Plus, I'm here with you, so I'll gladly suffer the girly shoes."

"Have you looked inside those things? They are _not_ girly. There's enough metal in there to...I dunno...do something metallic." Meg rolled her eyes and kissed him gently. "But...they're working, right? Your leg doesn't hurt as much as before?"

"Ran...it's a lot better. You did good. Go take care of your match and leave the first aid shit to me."

"As long as I get to take care of you later." He pulled her in for one last kiss before he had to head back toward gorilla. "I can't believe you pulled this off, Meg. Coming back here. Surprising me. I keep thinking I'm going to blink and you'll be gone."

"Nah. Part-cat. Nine lives. And you authorized sneak tactics." She winked at him and waved him away, tucking herself back into triage after he turned the corner and vanished from her view.


	31. Faith In A Rusted Shower

Welcome lovethemafia! I hope you've found both Analeptic and Malum enjoyable. Given the recent turn of events in the RR, the next story is all but written involving Joe. Poor dear soul. MWAHAHAHAHAHAha...ha...*ahem*. Uh. Anyway. Third ticket punched? Anyone?

Also, thank you to Nattiebroskette for the million and one edits on this; if you haven't checked out her newest; "Can You Help Me Heal"...what are you waiting for? :-)

Double-thank-you for all of your patience with the update; I struggled with the ending of this chapter and how the mood needed to...mood. I'd appreciate your feedback on it and what you thought of Meg's first day back - one hell of a surprise, eh?

Onward!

(Don't worry, you're not about to get pelted with tons and tons of useless characters, I promise. I hate stories that go that route. Just indulge me for a minute, okay? It'll all be worth it. Meg's gotta have some friends. Consider them human interludes.)

EDIT: Oh my god, NOBODY checked me on all the typos? GOOD LORD, people!

* * *

><p>In triage, Meg made sure the door was shut firmly behind her before letting out a shaky breath. "Please tell me this isn't how <em>every<em> night is gonna go?" Dave was still struggling to slow himself down; he wasn't built for running and his high-speed attempt to find Randy had left him well past winded.

"Jesus, Dave, I hope not. I'm gonna tear my contract in half and go right the fuck back to Saint Charles. My nerves can't take it, and Randy will end up killing Joe. And it's my first fucking show. This isn't how I wanted to surprise him."

Both of them jumped at the knock on the door; Dave motioned Meg to back away and went to see who wanted entry. Renee's small figure slipped through the door, and Meg moved to greet her, at first thoroughly perplexed and then horrified when she saw her arm.

"Oh my God. Renee. What happened? Why are you holding your arm? Didn't you just finish filming with Joe?" She fumbled for a Dynarex pack, popping the bubble in the middle and shaking it as hard as she could, feeling the chemicals ice up between her hands.

"Uh, other than the fact a six foot tall tweaker was trying to kebab me with electrical equipment, I'm good. And yeah, I'm _definitely _done filming with Joe." Meg pressed the pack gently against Renee's upper arm and glanced at the clock.

"Let's hold this here for ten or so, over your sleeve, then I'll get your sleeve up and we'll take a look at what's going on. Does Jon know you're down here?" Meg patted the table, and Renee stepped up as best she could in heels and a tight skirt, Dave helping her turn to sit with some degree of decency, throwing a warming blanket over her legs, in part to keep her skirt covered and in part to keep her from shivering due to the ice.

"No, and let's not tell him. I saw the cavalry show up for Joe once already; I don't need the cavalry plus Jon. I'll say I got clipped by a camera or something." Renee sighed; Jon's temper was legendary when given the proper motivation, and Joe would certainly qualify as a motivator if Renee said he hit her with a microphone after breaking script following a near-fight with Randy over Meg.

"Yeah...sorry about that. This." Meg gestured at her arm.

"Don't be. It's not your fault. A grown-ass man who can't handle a break-up?" Renee leaned over Meg as much as she could, pulling her into yet another hug. "Meg, look. We..." She waved her hands around, trying to imply the backstage crew and talent, "We don't know everything, but it wasn't hard to put two and two together. You left. Joe and Randy both looked miserable, and we all know how important you were to Randy. Then Randy disappeared. When he came back, even before you got here, it was like something changed in him. He was _happy_. And Joe stayed the same miserable asshole. _Whatever_ the reason was you left – if it was Joe, if it was something else – it doesn't matter. We want you to stay. _He_ wants you to stay. And Joe's just gonna have to live with the fact he fucked up bad enough to lose you."

"Renee, I _always_ knew there was a reason I liked you." Dave was beaming at the two women from the corner of the triage bay, glad Meg had found another ally. "And yeah, the 'tweaker' thing is beginning to worry me, too. He's beyond erratic. We're going to handle it." _'Meaning, he's getting a full twelve panel directly after the show, and then Talent Relations is gonna have a long sit-down with me. Harassing Meg is one thing; she expected that. Skewering Renee? He's out of his fucking mind.'_

Meg moved the ice pack and gingerly rolled up the three-quarter sleeve on Renee's dress. A dark spot was beginning to form on her upper arm; Joe had clipped her with more of the stick than either he or Renee had realized. "You're not gonna be able to play this off as a camera, hon. Jon's gonna know. There's no part of a camera that's oblong. Sorry." Meg gently massaged the area around the bruise, willing the depth of color to go away. "If you want, I can tell him. Or go with you when you do. And you never know, Jon might take it better than you think."

"And I might put on spandex and hop in the ring, too." Renee snorted. "I'll talk to him after the show, here, and only if you're with me. He'd probably listen to you better than me. You can tell him it's not exactly gonna be lethal." She shivered. "The sleeve is gonna have to stay up, isn't it? The ice won't fit under it, and costuming would kill me if I messed this up."

"You wanna stay back here for a while? I know the table isn't comfortable, but it -"

"Please?" Renee jumped on the offer; Jon was busy with pre-match prep. "Besides, we should catch up. Girl stuff. Did I tell you about the last time Jon took me to Vegas and we spent the night at the-"

"Ladies! Ladies. Tell you what." Dave cut in, and abruptly at that. "You stay in here and catch up, and I'll go do a walking-wounded survey so we know what we've got coming up at the hotel. See if we can catch anything before it turns into a call. I'll even lock the door." He shook his head, still smiling. "Besides. I think I hit my maximum quota on 'Conversations Old Guys Weren't Meant To Hear,' for today." Dave slid out the door, chuckling softly and closing it firmly behind him, checking the knob to be sure he'd reset the lock pin correctly.

Renee shrugged her shoulders, then turned to Meg. "What was that about?"

Meg smiled deviously. "How much do you know about knots, and what are Jon's favorite colors?"

* * *

><p>Dealing with listing and treating the night's bumps, bruises, and tweaks kept Meg and Dave occupied, Renee sitting quietly on one of the two triage tables, and Meg couldn't have been happier to be busy. She didn't want to see anyone get hurt, though she had the distinct feeling that a majority of the, 'Ow, can you just take a look at my knees and shoulders?' were simply excuses to stop by and say hello, but she couldn't complain. Dave shooed her and Renee away when it was finally time for Randy's match, walking them to a room with a monitor near the womens' lockers, as Randy was in competition with Jon and the match promised to be a good one. Joe had been chastised enough for one night, and enough people had seen both debacles involving him that Dave doubted anything more would involve either woman at the arena.<p>

To a degree, he was right. Joe fully planned on leaving Meg alone at the arena. He knew he'd crossed a line with Renee, he knew that cornering Meg on her own turf in triage was a bad idea, and he knew the concierge service was going to be useless to him unless he felt like taking an ambulance ride.

Randy, however, was an entirely different story. He'd embarrassed Joe, and in a tremendously public fashion. Knowing that his match with Jon was at the end of the night, Joe decided things couldn't get much worse for him. He'd already jumped script with the promo, so he decided he may as well jump script with Randy's match as well. He could always claim confusion about his role, disorientation from his match earlier in the night, any number of things – and besides, he didn't plan on being physically involved. Just mentally.

* * *

><p>"Uh, Layfield," Michael hissed to his right, palming his headset away from his mouth and praying nobody heard him or read his lips, "Look left. What the shit is going on? Joe's on the ramp? No intro? Music didn't hit?"<p>

John shrugged and whispered back. "Your guess is as good as mine. There's real backstage bullshit – real heat – between him and Orton. Let's see what he does. I'll get us started."

Clearing his throat loudly for effect, standing up, and waving and pointing his hat, John broke out into full-on JBL-mode, welcoming 'Roman' to join them at the table. Randy paused, both he and Jon on the mat, hearing just enough carried voice to nudge Jon in the side, tell him to fake a roll, be still, and try to sneak a look.

"The fuck?" Jon breathed the words, trying not to get picked up on camera.

"No clue."

Both men stood, shook themselves out, and went into a collar-elbow tie-up in the middle of the ring in order to continue their conversation on the sly. Joe, meanwhile, was adjusting his headset and chair at the commentator's table.

"What a surprise!" Michael's tone was genuinely shocked. "Down here to check out the competition?"

"When that bitch Orton turns into competition, I'll let you know."

John kicked Joe under the table; whether or not any of them liked it they all had to watch their mouths and the show's rating. "Well, these two certainly know how to put on a show. Let's see what they've got!"

Arms still braced on each other, Jon hissed at Randy again. "Now what?"

"Just drop me. I'm gonna roll and take a count out."

"The fuck?"

"You were supposed to win anyway."

Jon shoved Randy back as hard as he could, sending him into a corner turnbuckle and drawing a chuckle from Joe. "See? No competition at all."

"You've gotta give credit to Ambrose, he's really becoming a force and-"

"No, I don't. And no, he's not." Joe clearly wasn't at the table to contribute to commentary. Michael and John shot each other confused looks, but kept plowing ahead, trying to keep themselves on task. Joe simply sat there, feet up on the desk, staring daggers at Randy and smirking at Jon. It was disconcerting; the cameramen tried to avoid filming him, Randy and Jon both tried to avoid making eye contact with Joe, but eventually it wore on them both and they both wanted out.

Moments later, after yet another tie up, Randy hit the mat, hard. Jon whispered a go, dragged Randy back up to his feet, and went for a snaplock driver. Seeing the agreed-upon opportunity, Randy reversed out of it and then rolled as quickly as he could out to the side, where the thoroughly confused referee, well aware he'd lost control of the match – and having been informed by both men that they needed to call audibles to finish it out on the fly – started a fast ten count, with Randy backing up the ramp, faking a back injury the entire way. John and Michael called it as such, having no idea what was actually happening, until they heard Joe laughing so loudly in their headsets that they nearly had to take them off.

"What a joke! What a complete joke! All I had to do was sit here, and he's rolling out on some fake ten count just to hide in the back with his _girlfriend_ like a scared little-" John yanked the cord out on Joe's headset before he could complete the thought, not wanting to hear from corporate or the FCC for whatever profanity was going to fall out of the man's mouth next. Joe shrugged and slid up to the ring, posing for the crowd, Jon having vacated it quickly behind Randy as though he intended to pursue him to the back to continue the fight.

* * *

><p>Having watched the whole thing play out on the monitors, Meg had run toward gorilla as fast as her battered leg would carry her, her heels skidding on the concrete floor, Renee following fast behind her but opting to ditch her shoes as she went. Randy dropped his hands as soon as he was completely past the curtains, knowing the 'poor injured me' act wasn't necessary any longer. He nearly did end up injured as Meg slammed against him, arms wrapping around him and hands flying to the base of his spine.<p>

"Whoa, relax, relax. Acting 101, how to get out of a jam. I promised you I wouldn't lock up with Joe, so I got out of there." He pried Meg's grip loose, feeling her panting against him, trying to back her up enough to read the expression on her face. "And you look like you're about to fall over...and Joe's been out there the entire time...so what's going on?"

Jon wasn't far behind, with Renee pouncing on him equally enthusiastically as soon as he cleared the curtains. "Did that cocksucker touch you, too? I swear to fucking God, if he laid _one _hand on you, I'm gonna put a microphone up his ass." She, too, tried to look him over, but had no idea what she was looking for.

Randy chuckled. "Clearly, you two spent some quality girl-time together. What an influence, Meg." The fearful expression hadn't left Meg's face, or Renee's. "Wait. Why would Joe...what does she mean, _too_?"

Jon gripped Renee gently, and began to turn her around, his eyes finally settling on her arm. "Did Joe do that to you? You need to tell me what the fuck happened. Now."

"Jon, it's not a big deal. You don't have to-"

"Renee, I _do_ have to. Let's go. Before he walks up here and I have to do something _else_." Guiding her gently by the waist, Randy and Meg not far behind, Jon steered Renee back toward triage, where Dave could hopefully offer some explanation, since Meg was entirely wrapped up in Randy and what had happened out in the ring.

"Okay, we both saw him come out there. What did he do?" Meg's voice was so taut it could have snapped. "Why was he out there?"

"Meg, I don't know. He didn't say anything to either one of us. Just watching." Randy was doing his best to calm her, but could feel the ire building in himself. _'When he can't get her, he goes after me. Her friends. Any way he can. Because it all gets her, in the end.'_

"Well, we could hear him. We were in back, watching the monitors. Joe was calling you a bitch, saying Jon had no talent – what's going on? I looked at the script a dozen times today, there was _nothing_ in it like that. Nothing that involved Renee catching a mic to the arm, nothing that involved Joe harassing you at ringside, nothing that involved setting Jon off...just...nothing. We checked with the girls in the locker room, nobody changed _anything_ on the fly." _'Why did I come back? Everything worked when I was at home. And I fucked it up by coming back here. Randy would have been able to stay away from Joe, and now I'm here, rubbing salt in all the wounds.'_

"Meg, stop. Stop. It's okay. You didn't do this. We'll figure it out, okay? Did he do anything to you?"

"No. I mean, not after you told him to fuck off. We stayed in the back, I gave her ice, we watched the match on the monitor. That was it." Randy pulled Meg tighter against him, sweat be damned, his hand rubbing small circles against her side. "I should have stayed in Saint Charles."

Randy, Jon, and Renee all spun to face her, glowering. Jon was the first to speak. "No. You should have come back, just like you did. _Everyone _was getting hurt, Dave couldn't keep up without you, _nobody_ liked the new guy, nobody wanted the new guy touching their girls, and you needed to be here. Now you need to stay, so shut the fuck up with that shit." Jon glanced up from Meg to the towering man next to her. "Er, sorry, Randy." He turned back to Renee, and continued leading her to triage.

* * *

><p>Jon pounding on the door, yelling to be let in. Dave called over his shoulder. "It's triage, not demolition. Let yourself in."<p>

He immediately regretted his choice of words as the door fairly exploded open. Renee put her hand on Jon's shoulder. "Lay off. Dave and Meg were here and babied me. They're the good guys, remember?"

"Yeah. Yeah, fine. But I still want to know how the fuck this happened." Jon glowered at Dave and pointed at the black mark on Renee's arm, then back to Dave. "First Joe's pinning you on walls, then he's barricading Meg in here, now he's hitting Renee with stage equipment?"

Meg was the first to speak in the tense silence that followed. "Look. It's because I'm back, regardless of what you guys wanna think. At some point, we_ are _gonna have to talk to each-"

"No!" All four people in the room practically screamed at her, and Meg flinched back into the wall. Randy reached for her, still not having bothered with track pants, a shower, or so much as a towel.

"C'mere. We're sorry. I'm sorry. I know not to yell like that." He bent over her, murmuring against her neck. "But you know nobody is gonna let you be alone with him. It doesn't matter what problem it solves, it's prolly gonna start ten more."

Jon sniffled. "Cute. Anyway. _This_ shit happens again," and he pointed to Renee's arm, "And I'm going to put your concierge medical service to good use. For him, not me. As close as he is...was...to me? This _never_ should have happened." He pulled Renee against him, and she winced.

"Shit! Sorry, babe. Did I get your arm?"

"No, but I think I lost brain cells. You're...aromatic. Go get in a shower?" She smiled, and nudged Jon in the chest with the better of her two arms. "And hey – before we take off – Meg, I'm just gonna take Motrin for this, for now. If I need anything else tonight, can I call you at the hotel?"

"Um, she'll be calling you from the hotel, Meg." Jon stated, pointedly. "I want you to check her out again at least once. Er, please? Randy, that's cool, right?" Jon normally would have just told Meg to show up, but Randy added an extra level of things to consider.

Randy raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Wow, and he even asks permission."

It was Meg's turn to smile and offer a gentle punch to Randy's shoulder. "Of _course_ it's fine." She looked at Jon. "The "How To" sheet explains what to do to get a hold of me or Dave once you guys get back and get settled in. For now, try a little more ice, and _you," _Meg pointed to Renee and winked, "Don't do anything too strenuous."

Randy and Jon shared a second, confused look, but their girlfriends just giggled, with Renee urging Jon out the door and toward the locker rooms. Distantly, Meg could hear her ask if he still liked green. Smiling, satisfied, she closed the door behind them.

"Oh no you _don't_, you two. Not with me here." Dave huffed from his position in the corner. "I'm going to Talent Relations and then packing the car. You two talk or whatever it is you do." Passing by Randy on his way out the door, he sniffled. "Actually, Renee was right. Brain cells. Or soap. Aromatic doesn't even _begin_ to describe it." He cringed, and let himself out.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Meg slid behind Randy and locked the door. "What would you like to do?"

"Whatcha mean?"

"Well, you're still in ring gear, and you definitely need a shower. And we should be avoiding Joe. Let Dave handle that, or corporate. Plus, I need to grab my concierge bags, since I know I'm at least seeing Renee tonight. I don't think Jon's letting me off the hook that easy."

"So what you're saying is," Randy grinned, pulling her against him and enjoying the fact that she only half-wrinkled her nose at how sweaty he was, "If we don't want to be interrupted, we should do something now?"

"Oh, I don't mind being interrupted. It's kinda nice watching you squirm."

"You know, I'm _really _sweaty. I can use you like a towel..." Playfully, and with size as an advantage, Randy lifted Meg off the ground and started swiping her up and down his chest. "Or, we can just go get a towel now."

Meg, trying desperately to push off of him, made all the more difficult by her hysterical laughter, acquiesced. "You win! Shit, now I need a shower." She shook her hands off, tried wiping them down her front, then realized it wouldn't do any good as her clothing was damp from his skin. "So, what do you suggest we do about this?"

"I suggest you get some towels from here, a clean shirt and pants, and follow me down to my locker room with your bags. Free wine might not always be a perk of the job, but private showers definitely are."

"Oh, see, now you did it."

"Did what?" Randy looked thoroughly confused, but appreciated the view Meg was giving him as she bent over her bag of supplies and pawed through it til she found her spare pair of dress pants.

"Brought up Blaine. This better be one hell of a shower." _'And I need it, more ways than one. I need all of this day off of me. Joe, makeup, guilt. Our gentle sin, Randy. Please.'_

* * *

><p>Gently, after a short trek down the hall, Randy shut the door to his locker room, making sure to latch both the privacy lock and the deadbolt behind him. Single locker rooms were only offered to a select group of performers, and he'd never before been happier to be on that list even if the room was miniscule and the shower itself left quite a bit to be desired. The metal fixtures in the shower stall were rusty, and to say it smelled slightly of mildew was like saying he only needed a quick rinse, but the water was scorchingly hot, and Randy knew Meg would make him – and his lower back – appreciate it. He turned the water on and waited for it to take the chill off the tiles, then watched while she moved their soaps and shampoos within reach before sitting on the bench and busying herself with the zippers on her boots, gently easing her legs out and trying to rub some semblance of feeling back into the worst of the two before slipping off her dress pants.<p>

Bands of steam were beginning to whisper through the room, and Randy had already stripped off his trunks, shamelessly moving behind Meg to help her out of her blouse and suit jacket, giving her more time to work on her leg. Her stood behind her, her jacket slipping off easily, and he felt her shoulders rise and fall gently in a slight laugh as he fumbled with her blouse, having forgotten entirely that womens' buttons were arranged backwards from mens'. _'She never wears this stuff. It's pretty, but it's not like her. T-shirts, dark jeans, messy hair, no makeup – that's my Meg. All of this needs to come off. She's under here somewhere. Wash this off. Wash this whole day off. Make it us again.'_

Meg lifted her hands to cover his, pressing them against her breasts, leaning heavily against his thigh, her hair sticky against him, the result of too much time in a crisp updo coated heavily in product, now melting in the hot, moist air. She pulled out her hairpins, then pulled him down toward her, gently, knowing he'd be tender with her but still feeling pathetic in her request; there was no way she'd walk on her own, not yet, her leg was still too stiff. By the time they made it through the shower, or to the hotel, maybe even when she wrapped her shin or switched some of her gear and braces around, absolutely, but now – now she needed him.

He'd lowered himself over her, shoulder to shoulder, and Meg tilted her head back, angling from his thigh to his neck, tasting the salt on his skin and feeling the steam in the air curl moist fingers around her throat as she kissed a trail from the deep grooves above his shoulders to the sinewy lines near his jaw. She moved her hands to finish the buttons he'd started, sliding the blouse back from her shoulders. Praying he'd hear her over the spray of the water, she asked him to carry her.

He lifted her so delicately the motion barely registered, his lips equally busy against the crook of her neck, the scent of her rose oil amplified by the heat of the room. His arms were gentle under her knees and around her shoulders, his movements so careful that she knew her face registered warm delight.

"Couldn't ever hurt you, Meggie," he whispered, nudging the curtain aside and slowly sliding her down to her feet in the thick air of the vestibule between the shower-proper and the rest of the room, closing the curtain behind them, the dim light further obscuring their bodies. "Ever." Her fingers danced along the ridges of his hipbones while his fingers climbed her sides, then traced the back of her bra – her clothing only ever seemed to get softer with time – and he swore he could have spent an eternity memorizing her lines. Gently, he pulled the clasp open, waiting for her to move next.

Slowly, acknowledging what he'd said and how he'd said it, shown it, she started a series of nearly imperceptible movements, bra straps slipping, and it was an act of sheer willpower than Randy never took his hands from where he'd left them at the middle of her back. It was all part of the dance they did, some things the same, slight alterations here and there, but always a show of trust from both of them. What could be given and received, the things they were willing to endure, the reverence they showed each other in stolen glances, bedrooms, and even a small, rusted shower.

She leaned into him, her skin glacial against his in the sauna-level temperature of the room, fingers tense around the crooks of his elbows, and as she slid up his chest to kiss him he felt whatever thin bits of lingerie she'd been wearing catch against him, create a delicious friction, and then begin to fall away.

"Magic. You're like magic, Meg." Randy brushed away Meg's bra, toed her panties to the floor once they'd slid to her shins, and gently lifted her back into the shower, turning as they moved so the hot water would hit his lower back.

"Hm?" She was buried too deeply against his shoulders, not knowing where to nip or kiss first, fingers working deeply into his lower back, to be following much of what he was saying above the roar of the water, but she did stop and look up, trying to understand. _'After today...tell me what you need.'_

Mist from the shower spray peppered Meg's face; something light and shimmery was beginning to spread from her eyelids in the moist runoff, and her mascara ran in black rivulets down her face. She could feel them sting at the corners of her eyes. _'I remember telling you in Blaine that you didn't need to wear that shit. Stubborn, Meggie. Or did corporate make you play dress-up since it's your first day back?'_ Randy slid one arm out from behind Meg, his hand cupping her cheek, and for a moment he considered whether he should wipe the mascara away with his thumb.

"No, Ran. That's too easy. Tell me what you need."

His hand dropped lower, and he dragged his thumb across her lipstick, smearing it outward, some kind of red that was a few shades under 'roadside-diner-waitress' but far above what he remembered her wearing to dinner with him. It was too close to Jackson. "I need you, Meg. Not the made-up, company product...whatever this is. I need you." Not accounting for the amount of snarl and styling product in her hair, he locked his fingers through it far more firmly than he intended when he turned her, pushed her against the wall and pressed against her from behind, eternally grateful he'd had the foresight to let the tiles warm earlier, and far too close to heaven from the moan that came out of Meg when he'd accidentally yanked her hair.

"You liked that?" _'Fuck, if she makes that noise again, I'm gonna get off. She liked that? _I _liked that. A lot.'_

"I need you to find me." Meg turned to face him as much as she could underneath him, still pressed into the tiles, and all Randy saw was the makeup, sliding down her face, slivers of her actual skin visible under all the cosmetics. Taking her hands, bringing them up to her shoulders, he pressed her forward again and pressed himself deeply against the back of her hips, sliding slightly underneath her, invitation and warning. _'Just...get this off me. Joe, this day, this shit on my face, all of it. '_

"You were always here, Meg." Part of him hoped they'd be lost in the shower; part of him hoped she'd be loud enough to bring security to the door. He snapped his hips forward, ever so slightly up, holding her still, neither one dared move until he felt her push back against him, rocking gently, then eagerly, then turning enough to wrap her arm around his neck, keeping him close enough to pant that she wanted more and what she'd do if she didn't get it.

_'Just keep your hands still for now, Meg. No touching. Not me, anyway. Show me who you are when we're done.'_ He brushed the back of his hands across her face, traced the fullness of her lips under his thumbs, pulled his fingers through her hair again and again, trying to dislodge the sticky styling products. _'And Meg, oh my God, that noise. Please make that noise, but don't. That's home.'_ He moved her arm back to the wall; any time her hands left the tiles to try to touch him, he pushed them back, trying to make her understand – he didn't know how much, if any, of the garbage the makeup department had painted her with would come off with just hot water and fingertips, but he had to try. Had to see that the woman he'd followed cross-country, thought was dead, loved, would keep forever – was under there somewhere. That he hadn't imagined her showing up, that he could wash all the veneer off of her, all the taint that everyone else tried to put there, and she'd still be underneath.

It took a few minutes for Meg to understand what he was asking without saying, which was fine by Randy. He knew her body so well he could bring her to the brink and back as many times as he needed to, in order for her to follow what he meant. Finally, she cautiously brought a fingertip to the corner of her eye. Despite the length of time they'd been in the shower, the amount of spray she'd been catching as mist and splash from the wall, the makeup was still peeling off of her, and a black line was printed on her index finger when she pulled it away to inspect it. _'You need me...Find me...oh, Lord, Randy, sometimes I don't know which one of us is dumber, me or you. I'm right here...but you're looking for me.'_ Meg worked her hands over her face, trying not to rub herself raw, remembering all the times Jackson had her slather on the makeup, remembering Joe's fiancee – wife – at the door in Tampa, with her perfectly painted face, and she stared at the rivulets of black and red as they coursed down her fingers and across the backs of her hands, tiny sparkles from her eyeshadow floating on top.

As Meg worked, Randy eased her away from the wall, giving her space to move her arms, but holding her closer to him, feeling something across her tighten, her breathing start to come in shallow, hitching gasps. He could see the red and black run over her hands, his arms still bracing them against the shower wall, their hips still working in unison. Meg finally gave up, convinced whatever had been there was gone, and simply bowed herself against him, wrapping her arms back around his neck, back arched, whispering to him that only now, only with him, she had been made clean, and let herself go.

He only _thought_ he hated the song, thought back to the night he'd drank too much and nearly thrown her from her bed, but here she'd let him push her against a shower wall, trusted him enough to let him inside her without seeing, without really knowing – and had still somehow known exactly what he needed. He had no idea tile could hurt so much when you landed dead weight on it, on your knees, but he refused to let go of her. He had made her clean. _'She told me think about what we found. I found her.'_

It was the last thing he remembered before his eyes opened and swam, in part from the dim light and in part from flooding with water from the still-running, still-steaming shower. When he finally focused and his mind cleared, he realized Meg was on the tile floor with him, a warm smile on her face, makeup completely gone, hair in soft swirls across her shoulders.

"Welcome back."

"What happened?"

"Vasovagal syncope."

"English, Meggie."

"You passed out. We're just that good. But really...overexertion, heat...you were doing all the work, you stubborn asshole. When we get to the hotel, _you're_ going to be the one laying on the bed enjoying yourself."

"I found you though, didn't I?"

Meg leaned over him, kissed him, and began to gently rub circles over his shoulders with one of her washcloths, her medallion tapping against his chest; Randy nearly purred into her touch, the soap part roses and part whatever he'd packed for himself that week. "Took me to church, Ran."


End file.
